


war and peace inside my dna

by mnabokov



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Charles, Alpha Erik, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Brave AU, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: In a medieval world where Omegas are rarities, the last line of the Xavier royalty must find a suitable Alpha for their only Omega heir. This brings a rush of competitors and potential Alphas to the kingdom of Westchester, where the knights and peasants and royalty alike will compete for the Xavier Omega’s hand.But not the one you might expect.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Kendrick Lamar's "DNA."

Far off the coast of the mainland, where the water is as deep and as blue as lapis lazuli, the kingdom of Westchester rises out of the ocean, its blunt cliffs facing the yawning sea. A carpet of impossibly green grass covers the rolling hills and the castle is nestled comfortably by the coast, overlooking the cliffs and the sea. Around the castle, mountains rise and fall like uneven breaths.  
  
Here is the land of Xavier royalty and its subjects, a land of mountains and grass and wind, a kingdom of stone and antiquity. Here is a people that say their destiny is tied to the land, the peasants and the serfs and the royalty; here is a people that say their fate is woven together like a cloth, so that one’s destiny intertwines with many others. They say it’s the one thing that they search for, or fight to change. Some search for it their whole lives. And there are some who are led.  
  
A ship, an entire bilander filled with men from stern to bow, has been led to the kingdom now: they’ve come a long way, and they are tired, their faces gaunt and pale underneath their metal helms, their chests rising and falling unevenly underneath their tunics. Their ship is only one in a fleet of nearly a dozen, each one carrying men and gear and supplies and change.  
  
At the bow of the ship stands a tall man, a knight, his armor metal and his expression closed off. This man leads the cavalry. Although his shield is not the sturdiest, his tunic not the finest, the knight wears a heavy amulet around his neck, a symbol of protection from the royal Duke of Genosha.  
  
They set sail nearly two months ago, with only enough supplies for a month and a half at most. The weather spirits coughed and cried throughout their journey but the Duke had been relentless, pushing the flotilla forward even when the men were heaving with seasickness, eager to reach where they are now -- Westchester.  
  
The kingdom of Westchester has boasted a line of Omegas sitting on the throne for many years. It is tradition for the crown to fall to the Omega, and for the Omega then to choose an Alpha to secure the throne.  
  
The announcement had come to Genosha at the beginning of the summer: the far-off kingdom of Westchester -- a modest domain south of Genosha, a sea and a mountain range away, at the bottom of the continent -- comes to the last Omega in its bloodline. This leaves room for one and only one Alpha, any worthy Alpha that the Omega chooses, to become part of the royal family.  
  
Though many of the Genoshans that make up the flotilla, the peasants, the scholars, the merchants, are vying against one another for a chance to win the throne, our knight, the head of the cavalrymen, does not come to Westchester for the Omega.  
  
No, indeed. Our knight has fought for many flags and this is just another; Duke Azazel had asked the knight to accompany the fleet on their journey to Westchester, and the knight’s position as a knight and as a vassal of the Duke demanded his participation.  
  
Here we find the first character in our story, the knight Erik Lehnsherr, as his fate leads him to the proud, powerful kingdom of Westchester. But he does not know it yet. To him, Westchester is just another kingdom in the Southern empire, another fight in a lifelong battle.  
  
Now, Genosha is not the only domain eager to answer Westchester’s call. Even now, as they pull closer to the port near the castle, Knight Lehnsherr sees another fleet on the left, and one on the right, a little farther back, yellow and black shields, respectively, emblazoned on rippling sails. There is metal in their weaponry, in their clothes, their chainmail, in their blood. The Genoshan ships fly their own embroidered sails, the purple insignia of royalty bright against the foggy sky.  
  
“Pull into the port,” Erik calls over his shoulder, to his men. As he turns back to face Westchester, Erik readjusts the pendant that hangs heavy around his neck. In the distance, the spiked turrets of the castle pierce the fat, dark clouds swirling overhead. To the rolling hills and grassy plains of Westchester, the rain may come soon.  
  
Out of the three flags, Genoshan fleet docks into port first, Azazel’s bilander at the helm, then Erik’s, and the others following.  
  
The Earl of Kruvia, another country come to answer Westchester’s call, shouts a command as the second fleet docks, and Erik turns away from the other groups, ignoring them and choosing instead to order his men to unload.  
  
They unpack quickly, eager to step onto solid land after an arduous journey. Azazel gestures towards Erik and Erik takes charge of the cavalry, calling the men to collect weapons and supplies to make camp. The meeting of the four kingdoms is supposedly a call for alliance, a truce guaranteed through marriage, but Azazel and Erik both agreed to bring metal and gear nevertheless.  
  
From the rocking boat to the wooden slats of the port to the worn dirt path winding through the hills, Erik steps carefully, leading the group from the bilander to the flatlands a few kilometres away from the castle. They set up camp quickly and without much discussion. On either side of them, the two other groups have quartered, effectively closing them in.  
  
Erik watches silently as a few of the men in patterned kilts -- the Rosbergh people -- belt out in a heavy accent, directing others. All around him, our knight senses metal moving: the sharp tip of an arrow, the buckle of a belt, the rim of a helmet.  
  
“We’ll settle here,” Azazel interrupts, all but materializing behind Erik. The Duke’s skin crawls; he is uncomfortable with the cool, wet weather here.  
  
Though Azazel is stealthy, as he approached, the knight felt the metal of his dagger, and does not react. “Take a dozen up to the castle tomorrow to speak with the Lord, then the day after is the start of the Games.”  
  
When Erik only nods his chin in reply, Azazel continues, “I don’t like the look of it. The Rosberghans brought more men along than us, and the Kruvians are heavy with weaponry.” Duke Azazel nods towards the clan on the right, and then the left.  
  
“We’re prepared,” is all Erik says.  
  
Azazel snorts. “Either way, I want you to take a look around before you rest tonight. We’ll leave for the castle at the break of dawn.”  
  
The duke leaves without waiting for confirmation of his orders. Erik stands where he is for a moment more, in the midst of the movement, watching the people mill around and hammer down the stakes into the corners of their tents, lighting fires.  
  
Both the castle and the flatland face a dark expanse of forest, thick and dense and expanding for miles and miles into the horizon.  
  
The meadow where they’ve camped is small, so it’s a short distance from the edge of the campground to the forest, where the knight ducks into the quiet shade eagerly.  
  
The trees are tall and close together, with no trail in sight, a trademark characteristic of the growth here. Many times has the dark, dense forest slowed the approach of Northern invaders. Erik pushes through the woods quietly, his skin flushed from the warmer climate here and his tunic sticking to his armpits.  
  
After walking for a few minutes, Erik hears the soft purling of water. He is approaching a gentle stream that winds through the land. For a moment, he considers pushing on, continuing around the edge of the woods to examine the Kruvian camp from the shelter of the trees, but the air here is humid and the laughing stream beckons.  
  
In a moment of self-indulgence, something rare for the knight who lives a Spartan lifestyle, Erik heads to the river with no intention of conducting reconnaissance or anything of the like.  
  
The stream is shallow but strong, nearly indistinguishable from the mossy ground and undergrowth. Erik strips quickly and efficiently, save for his pendant, then dips his toes into the water before reaching down to splash water on his grimy forearms and elbows. He concentrates on the dirt under his nails, the grub on his skin.  
  
A few yards away, a young man on horseback approaches.  
  
That morning, the man who will soon interrupt our knight had all but sprinted out of the castle, his legs carrying him down the cobblestone stairs, weaving through the merchants’ stands to the stables, where the stablehand stepped back, out of the way where she was brushing Cadoc, as Charles mounted the horse and managed a farewell before he sped out of the stables, through the gates and into the forest.  
  
Out of the stone castle and out of the throne room, Charles loosened his tunic and whooped as Cadoc navigated easily through the dense woods. Around them, the trees rustled amongst themselves, whispering gently. To the river and across the flatlands, the wind came and sighed, ruffling Charles’ hair and Cadoc’s mane.  
  
The woods have a life of their own: they breathe and sigh and laugh and cry. As the sun burns brighter into the afternoon and as he makes his way deeper into the woods, Charles finds that the river laps at his ankles and the mountains watch over him. The air is warm but the sun warmer, the breeze light but Charles’ heart lighter. Sometimes, the clouds gather and mourn, thunder coming out and stealing the light from the sky. That’s what it is, you see, it’s something that big and something that indescribable, something he can’t hold in his palm or put in his pocket -- it’s the land, it’s _his_ land -- and he belongs to it as much as it belongs to him.  
  
But today, the sky is bright. Today, Charles guides Cadoc to the river, not thinking of anything in particular. In the distance, Charles can hear the hum of a crush of foreign minds -- Genoshans, Kruvians, Rosberghans -- but he pays them no mind; today, his time belongs to him alone, and there are no duties to be thought of.  
  
Today, Charles lightly brushes his ankle around the worn stump that he uses as a marker to guide him towards the river when he hears a loud splash.  
  
Today, there’s a man, our knight, as you might recall, in the river. As soon as Charles comes within a few yards of the water, the dark, earthy scent of the Alpha floods his nose, overwhelmingly distinct and strong. Which is odd, for Charles hadn’t registered another mind with his powers. When he concentrates, it becomes apparent that the Alpha’s mind is closed off in some way, or maybe Charles has finally found a mind he cannot dip into.  
  
Either way, the slippery shape of the knight’s thoughts -- Charles knows that Erik is a knight, sees the Genoshan crest on the pile of armor by the river -- makes Charles immediately wary. That, and the thick scent of his pheromones, and his -- his _shamelessness_ \--  
  
Our knight has just finished rubbing down his calves when the sound of hooves clopping drifts close. Immediately, Erik reaches out to sense the metal edge of a sharp dagger, a few gold coins, but otherwise gives no outward indication of anticipation.  
  
“What are you doing?” demands the intruder, as his horse neighs softly.  
  
“Cleaning,” Erik straightens up. Our knight has seen war, years and years of it; and this Charles observes, from the ropey scars on his arms to the lithe muscles of his chest and legs. Charles notices that the knight’s skin is tan and the knight’s cock is thick. “It’s been a long -- ”  
  
“This territory belongs to Westchester,” Charles says, irritably, and, Erik briefly registers the Omegan characteristics of the other man: his fair skin, pale eyes, red mouth and soft, soft face. The horse is sleek and well-groomed, and the man’s clothes are plain but fine. A sheltered life of wealth, then, Erik thinks. Indeed, Charles has lived such a life, but not in the way that the knight may expect.  
  
“And no one else?”  
  
Charles looks at Erik and Erik looks at him back, looks at the curve of his mouth, the skin of his collarbones underneath his loose tunic. The wind picks up slowly.  
  
“You shouldn’t be here,” Charles says, dismounting his horse with a swift swing of his legs. Irritation simmers underneath Charles skin, for he doesn’t like the way that the other Alpha looks at him. Erik looks at Charles and sees the fine make of his clothes, the untanned spread of his skin. Erik looks and sees what he was raised to see: a young, rich aristocrat with fixed ideas of ownership.  
  
The knight raises an eyebrow. “And you’re going to stop me?” He shakes off his left hand, spraying droplets out, and then steps out of the stream, moving close. To Erik, the other man is young, and looks as though he has never seen a day of war in his life.  
  
“If you stand in my way,” Charles’ eyes narrow. The wind chooses to shift then, carrying the breeze towards the river, towards Erik, even as he stalks forward. With it, the air carries a sharp spice: the unmistakable scent of an Alpha.  
  
Erik blinks. Charles lets a sneer curl his lips. “Surprised?”  
  
Before replying, Erik suppresses the innate instinct to lunge forward, to bite, to fight.  
  
Charles’ stomach clenches like a fist. Dryly, Erik asks, “Can you blame me?”  
  
Before he sees it, Erik feels the dagger, the warmth of five fingers around the hilt, the cold whip of air as the Charles draws his weapon quick, before he can think much of it.  
  
“I’m sorry?” Charles asks, his lip curling.  
  
Erik really shouldn’t, but he asks, “Are you?”  
  
“Oh,” Charles scoffs, “I’m not.”  
  
Erik ducks easily, anticipating the lunge, then darts forward, reaching out with both his powers and his hand to grab the hilt of the dagger. Charles may be faster than the threading of his clothes or the smoothness of his skin indicates, but Erik is still faster, his hand, still wet from the stream, grabbing onto the handle of the dagger, still warm, and pushing forward so that Erik’s hip pushes against the other man’s waist. Their shadows fall across the damp undergrowth.  
  
Instinct kicks in without prompting: Erik presses the bone of his forearm against the other man’s soft, soft throat, shoves them both back until that loose tunic snags on the bark of a tree; with his other hand, Erik twists the dagger until its edge kisses the skin underneath the man’s chin. Erik barely registers the scratch of dirt and twigs underfoot. The heat of strong thighs, a sharp hipbone, two strong arms press against Charles’ body.  
  
“And now?” Charles narrows his eyes, voice steady. “What will you do with me?”  
  
“Whatever I want to,” Erik says, but then Charles looks down at the dagger --  
  
Without thinking about it, the knight twists his wrist, turning the handle around so he can look at the hilt.  
  
When the knight turns the dagger to look at the hilt, the crest of the house of Westchester stares back at him. In the same way that Erik’s amulet carries the threat of Genoshan’s army, Charles’ crest holds a great power, enough to make the knight pause.  
  
“Unhand me,” Prince Charles all but snaps, “Or I’ll have you thrown in the pillory.”  
  
“Xavier royalty? Wandering alone in the woods without guards?” the other Alpha raises an eyebrow, his voice still annoyingly flat.  
  
“I can protect myself,” the prince breathes, abruptly hyperaware of where the knight presses them together, of how the thick curtain of pheromones hangs over them like a veil.  
  
Erik makes a small noise of disbelief that somehow encompasses the entirety of their situation: the blade against Charles’ throat, the bark digging into the small of his back, the river water soaking into his tunic. The two Alphas breathe heavily. For a moment, both of them pause, sizing the other up.  
  
Then, Charles jabs the knight’s waist, right above his hip and right into his kidney. Erik grunts in surprise.  
  
The weight pressing into Charles and the scent of Alpha musk suddenly disappears as the man staggers back in surprise; the dagger falls to the ground and Charles kicks it up with his boot, catching it in his sweaty hand.  
  
Erik straightens up, completely at ease in his own skin, almost as though he were unaware of his nakedness. “I could take you apart with just that.” He gestures to the dagger with his smallest finger.  
  
“I could take you apart with less than that,” Prince Charles replies, a half-smile ghosting across his lips. He resheathes the dagger and walks around the other Alpha carefully. “I’d be careful with who you talk back to, knight,” Charles says, not bothering to look back as he mounts his horse.  
  
Though the other man says nothing as Charles rides away, Charles can almost feel the weight of his smirk. Erik only feels the metal of the prince’s dagger hum in reply.  
  
  
  
At the same time, away from the woods and the grassy lands, in the heart of the Xavier castle, the acting Regent of Westchester sits at the head of a long wooden table, picking at his dinner. Overhead, heavy, metal, medieval chandeliers cast dark shadows across the dark wooden floors and heavy rugs. At the end of the dining hall, an enormous stone fireplace crackles. Several suits of armor stand on guard in the corners of the room. Candlelight flickers. Three letters sit in front of Kurt Marko.  
  
“Well,” Marko, the Lord Regent says, picking at his chicken, “That’s settled then.”  
  
The three letters are three declarations of arrival from the three kingdoms that anchored in the port today, signalling the start of the Games to determine an Alpha for the last Xavier Omega.  
  
Across the room, on the other end of the long table, the princess shudders at the thought.  
  
“We’ll leave them out on the flatlands,” Marko says coolly. “Let them fight amongst themselves.” He sneers and the princess ignores him, turning instead towards the letters. She picks them up from the tray.  
  
“Thank you,” she says to the maid, who leaves with a small curtsy.  
  
“Have Logan sort out the details,” Marko waves a hand. Plates and plates of food for their dinner are laden on the table, separating the distance between the princess and her Regent, but Raven still runs a thumb over the bump next to her hipbone where she keeps her blade to reassure herself. “Once the Games are over, you won’t need me here anyway, huh, Raven?”  
  
“Will you be heading back to Tularosa right after the Games?” Raven asks, managing to keep her voice even. She examines the letter from Rosberghans disinterestedly.  
  
“After the coronation.” Marko throws his napkin onto the plate. “Then I can leave this godawful place once and for all.”  
  
Raven stops listening after that, picking at her food until the dinner finally comes to an end. Marko exits the dining hall first, grumbling under his breath and limping severely. You see, while the line of royalty follows the Omega heir, the throne must be secured with an Alpha, so that Alpha and Omega may rule the kingdom jointly.  
  
Raven follows the Regent not long after. The hem of her long skirt drags along the floor as she sweeps out of the dining room. Not for the first time, she envies Charles. Today, he will not return until late, once he has his fill of freedom and fresh air, long after the sun sets. Raven’s duties often chain her to the castle, and tonight is no exception.  
  
The wall sconces flicker weakly, candlelight struggling against the shadows as she heads back to her room. The castle seems hollow tonight.  
  
By the end of the summer, or perhaps even as early as the end of the Games, she will have an Alpha here, living with her and Charles, another body to fill the other empty chair in the throne room, another Alpha to take Lord Regent Marko’s place now that Raven’s of age. Good riddance, she thinks.  
  
Princess Raven navigates through the drawing room on a whim, her dark dress a river of thin fabric rippling over the thick, crimson carpets. On either side of the enormous drawing room, pillars carved out of the stone walls stretch up towards the wooden ceiling. A stone balustrade peers out over the room. For a moment more she lingers, then returns to her room. There, her handmaiden will help her undress and prepare for bed.  
  
The next morning, Raven wakes to the sound of metal screeching against metal.  
  
“Jesus, Maudie,” Raven groans, flopping onto her belly as her maid rips open the curtains. The far-off call of a bugle trumpets the start of the day.  
  
“Today’s the first day, up up up,” Maudie the maid chides.  
  
Somehow, they manage to stuff Raven into a dress, a pretty blue thing with silk skirts and long sleeves. For a moment, Raven admires her figure in the mirror, sliding her hands down her waist, over the slippery material of her periwinkle gown. Maudie braids Raven’s blonde hair back. Raven considers herself for another moment, then asks, “Hand me my throwing knives, will you?”  
  
The throwing knives fit quite well underneath the enormous skirt, barely making noise as Raven makes her way down to the throne room. She barely has time to sit down next to a frowning Marko when the horn blows and two guards swing open the giant wooden double doors that lead up to the dais.  
  
Sunlight pours into the circular throne room, painting the stone walls with thick stripes of yellow light; and Raven looks down the stone walkway, down down down to the three flags -- Kruvia, Rosbergh, Genosha. She resists the urge to roll her eyes as the three leaders parade down the walkway. That morning, the three flags bore down the dirt path to the Xavier castle, trains of suitors and cavalrymen and knights streaming across the grasslands, up the winding hill to the Xavier Castle, into the throneroom.  
  
“Welcome,” Lord Marko smiles with teeth, standing and opening his arms. Dozens of faces stare up at him. The wooden frame of the chair is unforgivingly sharp and Raven squirms. “Here we all are at last, the four kingdoms of the Highlands. I thank you all for gathering for the presentation of the suitors!”  
  
A horn blows and a stout man steps forward, in front of the Kruvian flag. “Your Majesties,” he bows. Raven steals a glance around the room with her peripheral vision, searching for Charles. The prince stands a little ways off, hands clasped behind his back, his embroidered robes pulled tight across his chest. “The kingdom of Kruvia brings a dowry of a thousand pearls, hand-picked by the maidens of the Western shores underneath a blue moon, to present to the Omega.” He bows lowly, nose nearly scraping the floor. Behind him, his page brings forth a chest. Everyone leans in as the page opens the lid. The pearls are as rosy as a golden sky, tinted violet and pale pink like clouds during a sunset.  
  
The guard, Logan, from where he stands directly behind the two wooden thrones, scoffs. Under his breath, he mutters, “Confident, are ya, bub?”  
  
Raven fights a grin.  
  
The Duke of Genosha steps forward next. “My Lady,” he addresses Raven directly, his eyes dark, “Knight Lehnsherr brings his men, the finest cavalry in the land, who defeated the invasion of the Eastern plains, and a Genoshan dagger, crafted from by the most skilled blacksmiths in our kingdom.” He bows deeply as well, offering an ornate dagger in the palms of his hands. Against his dark skin, the metal dagger glints like white shells on black sand.  
  
Aforementioned knight hardly listens to the suitors as they present their treasures, their fantastic pearls and knives and shields; instead, he hovers in the back of the throne room, his back to the stone walls of the castle, his eyes roaming over the crowd, his powers brushing against the metal of their belts, their swords, their helmets.  
  
In front of the crowd, on the dais, there are two enormous wooden chairs: the Omega sits in one, her blonde hair bright even under candlelight, and the Lord Regent in the other. A burly man, the guard, Logan, stands behind the throne, and next to him is the Prince.  
  
Prince Charles, Erik remembers. Today, the Prince dons his emerald robes and his silver crown. His mouth is still impossibly red. Charles stands tall and unmoving, his eyes sharp as he takes in the crowd in front of him.  
  
Finally, the representative from Rosbergh steps forward. “For the Omega, Rosbergh has brought a shield made entirely of pangolin scales, from the Silk Road. It can withstand the fire of a thousand arrows.” The shield glistens under the candlelight. Raven smiles.  
  
A drum bangs and the crowd in the throne room bursts into cheers.  
  
“In accordance with our laws,” Lord Marko begins, his emerald robes swishing against the stone floor as he stands, “By the rights of our biology, the Alphas from each group may be presented as champions, and thus compete for the hand of the Omega of Westchester. To win, they must prove their worth by feats of strength or arms in the Games. It is customary that the challenge be determined by the Omega herself.”  
  
“Knife throwing,” Raven blurts out. Regent Marko glances back at her with a withering look. She tries again, more composed the second time. “I choose knife throwing.”  
  
This is where the Omega of Westchester begins to choose her own fate, and this is where her story begins.  
  
Marko nods. “Let the games begin!”  
  
The presentation of the gifts ends, and the Duke of Genosha finds Erik quickly, just as the crowd begins pushing towards the door, towards the highlands and towards the Games.  
  
“Stay close to me,” Azazel says, his lips barely moving as he speaks. His brow shines with sweat and his eyes shine with distrust. “I don’t trust any of them.”  
  
“As you wish,” the loyal knight replies easily, dipping his head and falling in behind Azazel as they parade out of the throne room.  
  
Bright tents, red and gold and green, have sprung up in the flatlands like flowers blooming after a night of spring rain, their flags rippling in the wind like eels. Spectators and competitors flood the fields. Every generation or so, these metaphorical flowers bloom on the grasslands for the southern Games, for the competition for the hand of the Omega.  
  
The plains overlook the stormy sea, but every body is either competing or observing: there are games of strength and power, such as the caber toss and tug-of-war and stone-throwing, and games of skill and speed, like archery and darts, and games of intellect, perhaps chess.  
  
Knight Erik watches from the boundaries, discreetly following Azazel as they walk from event to event, examining the competition and the other kingdoms.  
  
Our knight doesn’t speak to anyone, only offering the barest of acknowledgments to royalty that passes by. When Erik skirts around the boundaries of the caber toss, all the while keeping track of the silver of Azazel’s ring and the gold bracelet belonging to the Duchess that he speaks with, he sees the Prince of Westchester approach.  
  
“Your Majesty,” Erik offers neutrally. He averts his eyes politely as the Prince and his entourage pass.  
  
“Leave us,” Prince Charles directs to his guards. A few paces away, Azazel and the Duchess pause to examine the competitors.  
  
The knight turns then to face the Prince. Here in the open, underneath the sun, Charles looks young. His emerald robes are dark against his pale skin and his eyes are unusually fair, his mouth unusually red for an Alpha. Erik thinks he can distinguish the scent of Charles’ presence -- tangy, rich spice -- from the sweet breeze and the young grass. Here are two Alphas from two sides of the same ocean, two sides of the same silver coin.  
  
“Knight Lehnsherr,” the Prince says, tucking his hands casually into the folds of his robes. The gold laced around the hem of his cape is warm to Erik’s powers. Remember, Reader, that this is a time of loyalty and patronage, where even -- perhaps, especially -- Alphas must be subservient to royalty and power.  
  
With half a bow, Erik says dryly, “At your service.” The wind murmurs quietly, and the shadow of clouds float across the ecru sky.  
  
“Are you?” Charles replies easily, his eyes sharp when Erik straightens up and meets his gaze. Without waiting for a reply, Charles turns on his heels. “Walk with me,” the Prince calls over his shoulder.  
  
The flick of Erik’s pinky warms the copper coins in Azazel’s pocket; Erik turns and follows the Prince away from the caber toss, towards the center of the Games.  
  
“You’ve traveled far,” Charles begins, his pace quick and his thick boots heavy against the ground. In contrast, Erik’s thin leather soles hardly dent the grass.  
  
“We have,” Erik agrees. Neither of them looks at each other; instead, Erik walks half a pace behind Charles, both of them facing the row of archers aiming at their targets. Erik can’t stop a tendril of curiosity from unwinding low in his belly: he wonders, why has the Prince chosen to speak with him?  
  
“You must have seen war, in your time.”  
  
“I have.”  
  
“Tell me,” Charles says. His robes sweep across the grass, a rich, deep green fabric. A pale hand reaches out from its emerald sleeve, open palm encompassing the field, the Games. “What do you see here?”  
  
“A potential for alliance between four nations,” Erik says slowly, “A chance for peace in a time of war.”  
  
The Prince turns at this, fixing Erik with a look. “Try again.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“You’re a knight. You know war. Tell me what you see.”  
  
They come to a halt in front of the archers. Erik feels the head of a shaft bury itself in a target and relishes the feel of blade tearing hide, before replying carefully: “There could be one kingdom who leaves here at the end of the Games satisfied.”  
  
“And the rest?”  
  
“I think you know, Sire.”  
  
Charles turns. He’s half a head shorter than Erik, but his posture demands that Erik meets his eyes. “What makes you say that?”  
  
Erik wonders where Azazel has gone. “The Rosberghans have brought their best men, and yet some are Betas.” Erik gestures to two men with yellow shields stitched onto their tunics. “The Kruvians have much more than three days’ worth of supplies.”  
  
“They will stay for the coronation,” Charles says.  
  
Erik counters, “They have enough rations to last nearly a month.”  
  
Charles pauses before replying. “And Genosha?”  
  
“Lord Azazel wishes for nothing but good will between our kingdoms.”  
  
The prince laughs, sunlight glinting off of his brown hair as he shakes his head in disbelief. “And yet, he brings a troop of cavalrymen, the leader of which,” Charles nods at Erik, “Won’t even compete for the Omega’s hand?”  
  
“I have no interest in becoming royalty.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Erik huffs, looks away from Charles’ blue eyes, away from his red mouth. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”  
  
“You can’t address me like that,” Charles says lightly, “I could have you hanged for that sentence alone.” There is more, much more, that the knight could be hanged for.  
  
“Is there anything else Your Majesty would like to know?” Erik says. He knows as well as other vassals that royalty does not tolerate disobedience.  
  
“You intrigue me, Knight,” Charles answers thoughtfully. He tilts his head slightly to the side, like a child. “I can’t read you.”  
  
It just so happens that Charles was born with a gift, a power that happens to resurface now and then, across time and across generations. It is the ability to read thoughts in the same way you and I read literature, as easily as detecting black ink against white paper. And, it just so happens that Charles has been literate with every book of thoughts he has encountered. At least until now, because, the heavy amulet ‘round Erik’s neck was crafted with a unique alloy of metals, designed to block the same curious fingers that reach out to touch the shadow of Erik’s mind. Even when they are close, close enough for Charles to see the ring of sweat around the collar of Erik’s brown tunic, to smell that familiar scent, Charles cannot read even the faintest thoughts in Erik’s mind.  
  
For a heartbeat, a sudden chill runs down Erik’s spine. He thinks, is it possible, for the Prince to know?  
  
Erik dismisses the thought as quick as it came. But before he can reply, Charles continues, with a sense of authority that only royalty can imbue in the spoken word: “There will be feasts, every night, until the Games are over. I expect to see you in attendance.”  
  
“Of course, your Highness,” replies Erik easily.  
  
Satisfied, the prince dismisses the knight. The prince makes his way around the Games, towards the largest arena, where the largest crowdest has gathered, eager to view the knife throwing competition.  
  
A series of wooden targets have been erected along the arena, large and sturdy. For most of the morning, a majority of the Alphas have congregated here, trying their hand at the Omega’s challenge.  
  
So far, none have been remarkable.  
  
The princess sits on the temporary dais set up next to the arena, her elbow propped up on the chair’s armrest, watching unimpressed. Lord Marko sits next to her, and their guard behind them.  
  
One by one, the competitors step up to the targets, throwing their knives across the green grass. Soon, the last competitor is left. The Earl of Kruvia’s son steps up, his fingers trembling slightly as he eyes the target.  
  
“Come on, now,” Marko calls out impatiently. “We haven’t got all day.”  
  
The Rosberghans laugh at this, but the Kruvians bristle angrily; in the chaos, Westchester’s princess slips away from the dais.  
  
The Alpha of Kruvia grunts as he tosses his dagger. It hits close to the center target solidly.  
  
The crowd erupts into noise -- laughter and shock and jeering. “Well,” Marko blinks, mildly surprised, for no one foresaw the skinny Alpha as a contender for the throne. “There’s our winner.” He turns to the princess’ throne. He says dryly, “I hope you don’t mind the -- ”  
  
But the throne next to Lord Regent is empty.  
  
On the grass, there’s a resolute thud as the wooden shaft of the flag of Westchester is planted into the ground.  
  
“I am Raven,” the princess says, pulling back her hood, “Omega of Westchester, and I’ll be throwing for my own hand!”  
  
“What -- ” Marko’s mouth twists, as Raven unsheathes her throwing knives.  
  
“Raven!” the Lord says in warning.  
  
Raven tosses her knife at the first target, and it hits the center of the target.  
  
“Raven,” Marko growls, “Stop this!”  
  
But the princess ignores him, throwing the second dagger, which hits the target perfectly again.  
  
“Don’t you dare,” hisses the Lord, “I forbid it!”  
  
Then the princess breathes in, and every eye latches onto the metal of her dagger as it glints in the sunlight, as it winks at the crowd, flying across the green grass and landing in the dead center of the target.  
  
Triumphant, the princess turns around to meet the fury of Lord Marko.


	2. two

As you might imagine, the Games conclude quickly after that, the campgrounds in turmoil as the three kingdoms argue amongst themselves. For the many years that the Games have taken place, never before has something like this happened.

Back in the castle, the Lord Regent is furious. “I’ve had enough of you,” he snarls, “You embarrassed them, you embarrassed our kingdom -- ”

“This is unfair!” the princess shouts back, “Marriage? Suitors? I don’t want your life, I don’t -- ”

“You are acting like a _child_. I will stay here until -- ”

It is here that the acting regent discovers a way to stay in Westchester. You see, Lord Marko is not of royal blood; he happened upon the throne in Westchester, but now, given a taste of power, he wishes to stay there. And until the princess finds a suitable mate, according to their laws, the power will remain with Kurt Marko.

The Lord straightens up. “I will stay here, until you are mature enough for the responsibilities of the throne.”

“But -- ”

“That is the end of it, Raven,” the Lord snaps, “I will not be humiliated any further.” But in fact, the Lord is rather pleased with this turn of events, and turns on his heels, limping out of the room.

Lord Marko leaves the princess in her chambers, heading towards the throneroom, where he plans on addressing the disruption to the Games and the issues of the throne.

However, unknown to all the inhabitants of the castle, across their kingdom and the lands of the South, the border skirmishes of between the North and the South have escalated.

As Marko enters the chaos of the throneroom -- where the Dukes and Earls and Alphas argue amongst themselves -- he raises his hands, calling for silence. “My fellow warriors,” he begins, in an attempt to appease them, “I understand -- ”

A loud bang interrupts him as the front doors of the throneroom fly open, and a lowly squire scuttles in. “My Lord,” the squire pants, his hair unkempt and his forehead glistening with sweat, “The North -- they’ve -- ”

“What is it, boy?” the Lord snaps angrily.

“Spit it out!”

“Come, now!”

“The Northerners are invading, Sirs.” The squire takes in the Duke of Genosha, the Earl of Kruvia, the Viscount of Rosbergh. “The mountain fortress requests additional forces to help fight off the invaders, my Lord.”

“We will rally immediately,” the Viscount booms, “An attack on one Southern kingdom is an attack to all!”

Lord Marko sneers. “Yes, very well, Viscount, but as the ruler of Westchester, I remind you that I will be the one making those decisions.”

“Well, then,” Duke Azazel says, looking up at the Lord, “What is your decision, my Lord? My Alphas are waiting for an answer.”

“Hear hear,” the Earl of Kruvia agrees. “Make your decision, Marko, but make it quick, for my people are impatient.”

“This is more important,” Lord Marko decides, “The wellbeing of our kingdoms takes precedence over the question of who will ascend to the throne.” The four leaders dismiss their men, and in the throneroom they pore over the maps of their kingdoms. The threat of war hangs over their heads ominously, like a cloud.

In the rest of the castle, news breaks out like wildfire, and every able body rises up to meet the call. The maids and the cooks in the scullery quickly change the plans for a feast to plans for rations; the pages and squires run from room to room, from castle to village, from town to town, rousing the people; the knights and the cavalrymen pile into the armory to polish their armor, sharpen their swords. The kingdom is preparing for war within the span of several hours, save for two individuals in the princess’ chambers.

“I don’t want to,” Raven says, “I don’t want to live the way that any Alpha wants me to, I deserve to do what I want to do, and I don’t need to listen to anything anyone else says -- ”

“I know that, Raven,” Logan says. He tries to remain calm but the talk of war has started a fire in his belly and his blood simmers under his skin. “I understand, but -- ”

“I don’t want this! I’m tired of following tradition, of what Marko wants, of what you want -- ”

“Raven, I’m trying to help you -- ”

“Then help me become my own person! Help me get rid of him, Logan.”

“You have to understand -- ”

The princess shakes her head in disbelief. “You won’t help me.”

“I’m trying to help -- ”

“You’re loyal to him, then?” Raven demands, her blue eyes livid, “If you won’t help me get rid of him, then you want him to stay!”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You know he wants to stay, he wants that throne more than anything, and -- ”

“Raven,” the old guard says tersely, “Listen to me. I want you to be happy, more than anything, but -- ”

“But what? But you won’t help me?” The princess turns away, her gown sweeping across her bedroom floor, knuckles white around the sheath of her dagger.

“I’m telling you, that this is not the way to fight back. You can’t -- ”

Princess Raven shakes her head. “You’re just like him. I thought I could trust you, but you’re just like him.”

“Raven -- ”

In the pale moonlight that leaks into the stone chambers, Raven holds up a metal chain that the old guard had given her many years ago, a token of his guidance. For you and I, it would be a kind of memorabilia reminiscent of a dog tag. “Does this mean nothing to you?”

“Raven,” Logan says, but the princess does not heed his warning. With a twist of her knife, the metal chain splits and Princess Raven declares, “You’re with him, now,” as she storms out of the room.

The princess rushes out of the castle, down the stone walkways to the stables. She will take Cadoc out to the woods, tonight.

At the same time, the leaders have lit candles in the throneroom, discussing the war.

“We will stay,” Marko says. “Our kingdoms will need our leadership here.” The Duke, the Earl, the Viscount all nod in agreement, secretly pleased not to be fighting on the frontlines.

“Then who will lead the charges?” Prince Charles speaks for the first time since the doors to the throneroom closed.

Lord Marko sneers at him. “You will.”

Charles frowns.

“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Marko says, exiting the throneroom. The Prince follows him and starts speaking without prompting.

“You’ve told me before, on multiple occasions, that you do not believe the Southern kingdoms can cooperate.”

“I did,” Lord Marko agrees.

“And yet, you will send all three armies to fight the Northern invaders?”

“You believe that they will cooperate,” Marko sneers.

“They will,” Charles says adamantly.

“So here is your opportunity,” Marko says. Without Charles in the castle, without another Alpha in the castle, it’ll be easier for Marko to maintain power.

“But -- ”

“You would do well to be careful, Princeling,” Marko says. “It takes an iron hand to bring warring factions together. Charles the Benevolent is an epithet hardly fitting of an Alpha meant to bring our nations together.”

The Prince narrows his eyes. “We shall see about that.”

When the two Alphas return to the throne room, a few dozen individuals from all four kingdoms have flooded the room, arguing loudly with each other.

Prince Charles steps up to the dais without hesitation and the crowd respectfully quiets as he speaks. “Together,” Charles says, “Together, we will mobilize. Together, we will prepare to gather up North. This time of turmoil demands our cooperation, and as Prince, I ask that the kingdoms may come together, may put aside their differences for the common good, may fight together, in harmony, to protect our lands from the invaders. You all know what to do. Tell your people, tell your warriors, and we will ride out together to defend the South.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement and the prince takes his leave, heading towards the weaponry to oversee mobilization.

“A rousing speech,” the loyal knight Lehnsherr catches up with the prince, “But as a soldier, I must urge you to reconsider the idea that all of my men will cooperate with yours so willingly.”

“They’re your men,” Charles says, weaving through the stream of soldiers, inspecting the guards and the knights. The hallways are dark, save for candlelight and the glinting links of chainmail, but they are crowded with commotion. “Control them.”

“I lead them, Your Majesty, I do not control them.”

“Well,” Charles smiles tightly. Around them, the corridors of the castle bustle with moving metal and moving men, gearing up for war. “Then I will have you as my escort, Knight Lehnsherr, as a symbol to all three kingdoms that cooperation is of utmost priority.”

Erik frowns. “Sir?”

The prince waves over a page and begins examining the shields that the boy holds up for inspection. “Report to my page tomorrow morning. You are dismissed, knight.”

Erik exits the castle then, walking down the dirt path to the Genoshan tents on the grasslands. There, he tells the Duke of this turn of events.

Azazel nods thoughtfully. “This is good,” he says slowly, considerately. “We will support Westchester in this war.”

“For now,” the knight says, and his Duke agrees. “For now.” 

Satisfied, the loyal knight takes his gear and heads to the woods, in search of a quiet place to sit and prepare for morrow.

He finds a moonlit patch of grass on which to sit and polish his armor, and for a while, he does just that, methodically cleaning, relishing the feel of the metal humming underneath his touch. As he polishes, he reviews the day’s events. He decides he will let Munroe take charge of the Genoshan troops while he rides with the prince.

Now, Knight Lehnsherr has lived a life of war and has been born with a gift: the ability to manipulate metal. These two things combined have made it very difficult for anyone to approach the knight without the knight knowing. This particular evening, however, Erik startles when someone steps into the clearing.

Immediately, instinctively, the metal swords resting on the forest floor fly up, glinting in the moonlight like the ocean waves off of the scales of a school of silver fish, pointed towards the intruder.

“Apologies, Knight,” the intruder, a man with a round belly, says, “I -- ”

Reader, you have to remember that the phenomenon that will be later discovered as mutation is rather rare, in this world, and often not looked kindly upon. This is why the knight immediately goes on the offense, rightening up and crossing the clearing in less than a second, his knives hovering behind him. Curiously, the knight had neither heard nor felt anyone approach.

“Who sent you here?” Erik demands, reaching out and grabbing the other man’s collar.

“Wait,” the intruder gasps, “Your powers -- ”

“Who do you answer to?”

“I’m like you,” the man gurgles, “I’m like you, I can -- ”

But what happened next was more curious, still, you see, because the short man suddenly transformed -- scales covering the body, rippling over human skin in wave -- into a mirror-image of the knight.

“Who are you?” demands Erik.

The shapeshifter transforms once again, scales covering human skin and shifting, changing, until the princess of Westchester is held tight by the knight’s grip.

Erik drops his grip on Raven’s collar.

“I’m like you, you see?” Raven says, eagerly, “I didn’t know that there were others, I -- ”

“How do I know?”

“How do you -- ” Raven steps back, brushing her hands down her trousers. “I wasn’t -- I wasn’t looking for anyone, we happened upon each other, and it’s -- ” the princess pauses, thinking of Fate and thread. “Look, you have to trust me, you see?”

“Who are you?” the knight asks, again. “Who are you really?”

And then Raven shifts again, into her blue and scaly self.

“I’m _like_ you, knight.”

In the moonlight, Raven’s scales look black.

“Then why do you hide?” Erik asks.

“Why do you?” she counters.

“Not for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Erik says, “One day, we won’t have to hide. One day, you won’t have to hide what you are.”

“What I am?”

The knight looks at her. “Perfection.”

“I -- ” Raven looks down, at the ground, at her bare feet, flustered.

“Have you ever seen a wild falcon and thought it should belong in a cage?” Erik leans in, his voice hushed, “Have you ever seen a wolf and thought it should be covered up? We aren’t meant to hide, Raven.”

The knight has a way with words, as magnetic as any speaker, but something in his meaning resonates inside of the princess, inside her very core. “Are you a storyteller, Knight?” the princess asks after a moment’s worth of thought.

“I simply believe what I say,” Erik says, stepping back and returning to his tree stump, where he sits.

“Can I help you?" she asks.

The knight looks at the shapeshifter for a moment, then relents, dipping his head.

A strange pair, the two of them make, the knight and the princess, but not in the way of the stories; no, our knight shows this princess how the very molecules of her dagger come together, shows this princess how the metal sings.

They exchange stories in the moonlight: the knight tells his tales of war and of conquest, while the princess shares the tale of how Kurt Marko got his limp. In fact, the Acting Regent was out on a hunting trip, in the very eastern territories of Westchester when an enormous beast emerged from the woods to attack the hunting party. No one has ventured to the far edges of the territory since.

Then, the midnight bugle trumpets, interrupting them. “Remember when I said, Princess,” the knight says, and he bows, then takes his leave.

The princess stands there for a while more. Musing over the words of the knight, she begins thinking. Her thought quickly transforms into action, as she rises, whistling for her steed.

The princess rides into the night, her horse trotting lazily, sniffing at the young grass. She sits on her horse. The moon watches over her.

Raven directs Cadoc to the castle, back up the dirt path. She prepares to leave the forest when something catches her eye: a strange, shimmering blue wisp, almost like a flame, hovering in the air.

“Will-o’-the-wisp,” she murmurs.

The wisps lead her deeper into the forest, down a dark path, over gnarled roots and under clawed branches. Her steed, Cadoc, whinnies nervously.

“Come on, Cadoc,” she dismounts, then beckons.

The princess stumbles upon a little house, built into the very knolls of the earth, its door nearly indistinguishable from the dirt and grass around it. If it weren’t for the blue wisps, Raven would have walked right past the hut.

“Hello?” calls out the princess, as she swings open the small door.

A young woman greets her. “Hello, you’ve come just in time.”

“Have I?” asks the princess, “The wisps, they led me here, I’m -- I’m looking to change my fate.”

“Your fate,” echoes the woman. Inside the hut is a clutter of many things, an antique shop of sorts, filled with trinkets and knick-knacks like playing cards and animal knuckles and herbs. “You’ve come to the wrong place, love.”

“A spell, then,” Raven says, spying the crystal ball and the floating plants at the back of the dusty shop, “I’d like to purchase a spell.”

“Not selling,” the woman singsongs, sprinkling tea leaves into a pot.

“I’ll buy,” Raven blurts out, “With these.”

The princess brings out three pearls from her pocket, the same pearls presented to her from the kingdom of Kruvia. “Pearls,” she says, “From the Western sea.”

“Oh,” the woman says, reaching out to look at the pearls. The teapot floats without her touch. “That’s lovely, that is. A spell, you say?”

And thus, the princess purchases a spell, to change her fate, to change the mind of her guard, so as to help her rid Westchester of the Lord Regent.

“This ought to do it,” the young witch proclaims, after brewing a potion in her teapot, pulling out the liquid with a flick of her fingers and siphoning it into a vial.

“It’ll change Logan’s mind?” Raven asks, “And he’ll help me?”

“It’ll change your guard alright,” the witch agrees. “Now, the payment?”

Princess Raven leaves the witch’s hut with the vial tucked carefully in her pockets, mounting Cadoc and riding back to the castle quickly.

The inhabitants of Westchester castle had worked throughout the night. Raven returns to the castle just as the sun rises again.

The cavalry have just about finished assembling and Raven knows that they will leave soon, which is why the princess races to the drawing room, to where she correctly assumes her brother will be.

“Charles,” she pants, as the thick wooden doors open with her push, “Charles, I -- ”

“Princess,” Lord Marko says coldly, “We are busy. You -- ”

“Charles,” the princess repeats, “I need to speak with you, I -- ”

“Raven?” Charles looks up from the maps and the papers.

“Leave us, Princess,” the Earl agrees, “I think you’ve caused enough commotion already.”

Raven does not roll her eyes, but it is a close thing.

“Give us a moment, please,” Charles says to the Regent, just as the morning bugles announces the break of dawn.

“The troops will move out, now,” Duke Azazel comments, “They’ll be waiting for you, Prince Charles.”

And so the Lord and the Duke usher Prince Charles from the drawing room, but not before Raven grabs her brother’s wrist, yanking him close to murmur into his ear, “The Knight, Erik, he’s -- ”

“That’s enough of that,” Marko snaps sharply, pulling the princess away. “Raven, to your chambers. And clean up your clothes,” he takes in her trousers and muddied boots.

The prince and princess are separated, then, and Charles glances over his shoulder one last time before rushing out of the castle, to the army which he will lead miles and miles away to fight the Northerners.

 

Knight Lehnsherr finds the Prince easily, even amidst the chaos of the army.

It’s quite impressive, really, the scores of warriors that have assembled on the plains. A sea of black and yellow and red armor, as well as rippling flags and neighing horses, wait on the green grass for the prince.

Charles the Benevolent is accompanied by his page and a few of his trusted Alphas when Erik approaches.

“Your Highness,” Erik says, as his steed draws close to the entourage.

“Ah,” Charles looks at Erik. “Knight.” The prince beckons forward Erik. “These are my best warriors.” The prince introduces his guard -- the brave Armando, the steadfast Alexander, the clever Jean -- all Alphas. Erik greets them with a curt nod, just barely the respect demanded of him. With the introductions finished, Charles waves his hand and the three guards are dismissed.

“Your escorts are young,” Erik comments, flicking the reins in his hands to follow Charles’ horse.

Behind them, the flag-bearers give their mark, and the troops begin to move.

“They are loyal,” Charles says, and Erik remains silent.

The combined armies of the South set off, the infantry in front, the prince and his selected advisors, then the cavalry and mounted archers behind.

“Tell me,” the prince asks the knight, for the journey before a war is long and dull, “Why have you come to the South?”

“Sire?”

“Your accent, the way you say certain words,” Charles turns his head to look at Erik. “You’ve spent some time in the North.”

“Do you interrogate all of your subjects like this, or only the foreigners?”

The prince laughs lowly. “I’ve said it before, but you really can’t address me like that, you do realize.”

“If you minded so much, you would’ve done something about it. Your Highness.”

“I admire your nerve,” Charles squints out at the horizon. They will ride for two days and two nights before reaching the boundary fortresses. “But I didn’t bring you here for that.”

“What have you brought me here for, then?”

“Your men have told me that you fought for the North for many years. It’d do well to have someone knowledgeable of their strategies amongst us.”

The knight huffs. “If your men knew, I doubt they’d be pleased.”

“They’re already unhappy with your presence,” Charles says, “But they respect me and they respect my decision. They will not question it.”

“You believe in them.”

“I must.”

“Do they believe in you? No king is always benevolent.”

“No knight is always victorious,” Charles retorts. “Watch your mouth when we are in front of the others.” The prince jerks his head to indicate the rows of men behind them, too far to overhear. “I shall not lose their respect.”

“Then why do you tolerate this?”

“Would you really fight for someone who doesn’t recognize you as an equal? I can tell, knight, that the honorifics and the fealty displease you. Forcing you to yield your obedience would do nothing to help me.”

Erik pauses. Then, “And your men?”

“I am their prince,” Charles says, “I am not yours.”

“Indeed,” Erik agrees.

“Indeed,” Charles says dryly. “You and I will spend time together, so do not think less of me just because of my heritage.”

The knight lies, “I never did.”

The prince hums. “I could tell, that very first morning. You saw the make of my clothes, the mane of my steed, and you thought you knew what I was made of.”

“You have not offered the opportunity to prove me wrong,” Erik says.

“We shall see,” the prince smiles, “I might surprise you yet.”

For two days and two nights, the army moves. It stops only two times in two days, an impressive feat for such a large military. Each stop is only for a few hours, not enough for the soldiers to break out tents, so they camp out on the grass, or underneath the trees, sleeping in their armor. During these two days, the prince commands his army without hesitation, as though it were not his first time in charge of such a large army, as though Lord Marko had not given Charles power in the hopes that Charles would fail.

During these two days, the prince and the knight indeed spend time together, as Charles predicted. It is perhaps unsurprising that their conversations are often tense; in their blood and in their nature is stubborn pride, both the knight and the prince.

And yet they manage to cooperate well enough.

The first time they stop, the prince calls for his guard. The escorts gather around the map that Charles unfurls, and they listen carefully as Charles delineates where he wants each faction of their army. The infantry is not allowed to erect their tents, for they are on the move, and must move quickly, but the royal tent has been hammered into grass.

Allow me, for a moment, to describe the royal tent to you, Reader, for Westchester’s castles are grand and sturdy, but they are stone and cold in the winter. The kingdom of Westchester, like many kingdoms of this day and age, are kingdoms of war, and are thusly equipped. The army of Westchester, as mentioned before, is impressive, but their mobilization efforts and their supplies are truly a sight to behold. In particular, the royal tent stands in sharp contrast to the bleak surroundings.

You see, the Southern troops have begun travelling along the coastline, through the dense forest that is the spine of the continent. Black and brown and gray is this coastline, dull and lifeless save for the trees and the stormy sea. And the royal tents are bright, deep scarlet, embroidered with gold lace, rippling bright in the sun. Inside, the tents are spacious, enough room for a moderately sized table, a cot, and five or six bodies at a time. Here is where the prince’s closest advisors gather, poring over the parchment maps and historical documents, and here is where the prince spends the first night of their travels, alongside his three loyal soldiers, the brave, the steadfast, the clever.

“We should approach from the West,” says Armando, “By the way of the plains. It’ll be the fastest way to reach the North.”

“We should approach from between the plains and the coast,” counters Alexander, “That is the weakest portion of their defense.”

Jean is silent, her eyes turned away from her comrades and their parchment maps. Instead, she glances behind her, to where the knight stands silently.

“The North already knows we are coming,” the prince reasons, “I see no reason as to why we should hide. I agree with Armando. We will take the way of the plains.”

As if urged by the clever advisor’s look, the knight says, “The coastline would be a better option.”

The prince frowns. “I’m sorry?” he turns around to look at the knight.

Lehnsherr steps away from the shadows of the tent and approaches the table. “You’re correct in saying that the North already knows you approach, but the size of your army is much larger than they will expect.” For emphasis, the knight taps the mountainous spine of the country. “It’ll be easier traveling by the coast, through the mountains. They won’t see us coming and they won’t be able to prepare accordingly.”

The other advisors, Alexander and Armando, interject. “Will it be safe?” they ask. “How much longer will the journey take?”

“It is safe,” the knight says, looking down at the map, “I’ve traveled that way many times before. And we will reach our boundaries within a few days.”

“Fine,” Charles says tightly.

The second time they stop, they make camp at the edge of the forest, by the ocean. The earth gives way to a cliff about fifty steps from the edge of their camp. The precipice overlooking the ocean faces a short drop, no more than twenty feet down to the sea. Beyond that, the ocean stretches out, dark and deep and seething, liquid black. On the waves, an enormous sailing ship floats, its sails limp and the metal shields adorning its sides glinting in the weak moonlight. The Northern ship sits, undetected by all in the camp, save for one.

At the cliff’s edge, our knight feels the metal of the ship, the metal of the soldiers’ belts, their helms. The familiar make, the composition of the Northern metal had all but sung to Erik, and he paces towards the cliff’s edge with single-minded intensity, the metal amulet normally slung around his neck forgotten. Behind him, the rest of the camp is oblivious.

This particular night, the wind is cool and the sky is dark. Westchester’s scarlet tents dot the forest floor like fallen rubies. The soldiers clamor amongst themselves as they eat, preparing to settle in for the night.

In his tent, the prince finishes the last of his bread and meat, washing down his meal with wine. He murmurs a thanks to his manservant, who clears the table quietly. “Anything else, sire?”

“That’ll be all.”

The prince rises, pulling down the sleeves of his thick coat over his wrists. “I’ll be just outside for a few moments,” he says as he heads outside to speak to his troops.

Most of the soldiers are congregated around small fires, talking amongst themselves as they eat. Prince Charles spies Armando and Alexander by the closest fire and begins to make his way towards them when he feels it: a new mind, a beautiful mind, saturated with pain and anger older than the prince himself. He doesn’t recognize it yet, but this mind that Charles has detected is our knight, Erik. You see, as a telepath, the prince may be able to read minds, but that does not always mean he understands them. This mind, the prince registers, this anger, is all-consuming, the kind of feeling that fuses into blood, permeates bones; it’s as though this mind is drowning in the pain. It takes him a moment to realize that the other mind is _actually_ drowning.

Here is where Fate ties the thread together and here is where the stitching begins to resemble tapestry.

And his reaction is instantaneous: Prince Charles sprints across the grass, legs pounding out fifty steps to the precipice, and he dives over without hesitation.

 _Let go_ , Charles thinks, _let go, Erik, you can’t, you’ll drown_. His body plunges into the water with little more than a splash, and the water is shockingly cold, but Charles propels himself forward, towards Erik, where the knight stretches out one pale hand, as if he could stop the enormous ship, made almost entirely of wood and cloth. And then, _you have to let go, I know what this means to you, but you’re going to die_ \--

Charles reaches out and wraps two arms around the knight’s broad shoulders, before the knight can be tugged along by the few pieces of metal any farther, any deeper into the unforgiving ocean.

_Please, Erik, calm your mind --_

With a strength that Charles can barely begin to understand, Erik lets go, and the two of them float to the surface of the ocean.

“Get off me!” says Erik, as their heads break the surface. “Get off!”

Charles lets go and the current immediately separates the two of them. The prince gasps for breath, kicking up to breathe.

“You were in my head,” Erik spits saltwater out of his mouth as he speaks, his hands pushing back and forth as he treads water, “How did you do that?”

“You have your tricks, I have mine,” Charles says, his hair slick against his skull. “I’m like you, just calm your mind.”

“I thought I was alone,” the knight says, and his mind is reeling, at the thought of another person like him.

“You’re not alone, Erik,” the prince says, head bobbing above the waves, “You’re not alone.”

Erik looks away first, his eyes dark, expression unreadable, as he pushes towards the shore, a little ways down from the cliff. Charles follows reluctantly, his coat sodden with water, heavy and uncomfortable.

The swim back is difficult, to say the least. The ocean does not discriminate; it pushes against princes and knights alike, and by the time Erik and Charles wade up to the beach, below their camp, both of them are panting heavily. Charles peels off his coat. His leather boots feel as heavy as lead.

“Why did you do that?” demands the knight as soon as the seawater has receded to their knees.

“Save you?” pants Charles. “Would you rather I let you drown?”

“You’re the prince,” Erik says, and from anyone else, it wouldn’t sound as half as derogatory as it does when Erik says it. “I’m one soldier in the army, and you think it wise to leap into the ocean to save someone who doesn’t even bear your crest?”

“There’s a difference between a king and a soldier,” snaps Charles angrily. His white tunic has gone nearly transparent, clinging to his skin. Erik thinks that the ocean exacerbates all wounds, salt worming into every open pore, rubbing roughly into pink flesh, leaving only clean pain; Erik thinks that the salt exaggerates all things, like the hurt of a cut, the red color of Charles’ lips, his pale skin, the rich, tangy scent of him. “And if you have something to say, say it here. I will not lose the respect of my soldiers. They respect me, even if you don’t, and I won’t tolerate your blatant disobedience in front of my subjects, regardless of your intentions to help us.”

“Are you sure of that, sire?” Erik says, his mouth curling around the honorific. “No king is loved by all of his men.”

Their heels hit the soft grass at the edge of the forest. “I know that,” the prince says. Quieter, he says, “And I know you know that.”

“How -- ”

“I know everything about you, my friend,” says Charles. “I know what they’ve done to you, and I know -- ”

“Then you know to leave it alone,” Erik snaps, turning sharply, stopping Charles from walking forward.

“Loyal knight,” Charles watches Erik carefully, “That is what your soldiers call you. Tell me, Erik, are you loyal? Are you obedient? Subservient?”

And that is when Erik calls his dagger into hand, holding it tight, his teeth clenched.

“Go on,” the prince says primly, spreading his arms in invitation. “Do what you’d like. I know how you feel, Erik, about us -- about royalty, about the wealth, the decadence. I know what you thought that day at the river. Would you -- ”

The knife flies out and Charles has his back to the closest tree in a heartbeat, the knife against the bulge of his Adam’s apple, the bark behind him stiff and scratchy through the thin, wet fabric of his tunic. The prince doesn’t hide his appreciation of the knight’s power. “You could make yourself king,” Charles says, quieter, eyes half-lidded, looking down at the knife. “With power like that, you could be anything.”

“And so could you,” Erik retorts, stepping closer, “I’ve seen what power does to men, I’ve seen what it can do. I’ve been at the mercy of those in control -- at the mercy of people like you -- never again.”

The prince shifts underneath the weight of Erik’s knife and both of them think of the last time, how this is just like the first time they met. It’s that memory -- of the two of them, by the river, in a situation not unlike this one -- that lets Erik press the knife a little harder, with the knowledge that he’s done this once before, and Charles did nothing.

“You know nothing,” Erik says to Charles. In the moonlight, the silver knife looks nearly blue. “Do not test me, Your Highness.”

The prince barks out a laugh. “You say that power corrupts men, and yet, with only this much power that I’ve allowed you, this is what you become.”

The knight steps back immediately, as if he were burned. The knife returns to his hilt.

“Let us return, knight,” Charles says lightly. “They will be wondering where we are.”


	3. three

The prince and the knight make their way back to the camp, still thoroughly soaked with salt water. From her position on the edge of camp, Jean watches them. Everyone else has retired for the evening, and Jean will clamber into her tent when her shift ends. But for now, she stands immediately as Charles and Erik approach. Jean notices that Charles has lost his coat.  
  
“As you were,” the prince dismisses her concern with a wave of his hand. The prince feels a faint tendril of curiosity from Jean before brushing it aside.  
  
Jean watches the prince navigate through the sea of tents easily, the knight on his heels. The royal tent, perhaps five or six times the size of the typical assignments to a footsoldier, waits a little ways from the rest of the cavalry. Prince Charles ducks into his tent and Knight Lehnsherr follows.  
  
“You’re a telepath.” The knight wastes no time on pleasantries. Inside, several candles flicker appealingly on the table, which has been cleaned by Arthur. Charles draws out a chair and sits by the table.  
  
“I am,” Charles agrees, “But up until tonight, I couldn’t detect your thoughts at all.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but it is one.  
  
Erik watches as Arthur the manservant appears, two thick blankets in hand. The manservant drapes the first over the prince, and the second around Erik’s shoulders. Arthur has warmed the blankets over the last embers of the campfire, and the cotton is blessedly warm against their cold clothes. Arthur returns to the prince’s side and bends down to undo the laces of Charles’ boots.  
  
“I knew of another,” Erik says slowly, watching Arthur work, “During my time in the North. I was given an amulet, a -- a shield of sorts, to block her.”  
  
The manservant finishes undoing the prince’s sodden boots and leaves when Prince Charles dismisses him with a wave of the hand.  
  
As soon as the flap of the tent falls shut, Erik leans in. “I didn’t know there were others.”  
  
“There are. Not many, but there are.”  
  
“Have you,” Erik struggles to find the words, “Have you always known? That you could -- ”  
  
“I could tell you,” Prince Charles answers, “But it isn’t that thrilling of a tale, my friend, just a realization when I was young.”  
  
“You are still young.” The knight leans back in his chair.  
  
The prince kicks his feet up onto the chair next to him, almost petulantly, and tugs at the collar of his tunic, pulling off the wet shirt. Erik’s gaze flicks over the pale expanse of Charles’ neck, his chest, his stomach, before looking away. “Do you want to hear or not?”  
  
“I’m here, aren’t I?” the knight retorts, and Charles gives him a firm look. When Erik makes no indication of an apology, Charles breathes out shallowly, then begins talking.  
  
They talk for a while.  
  
Their conversation is stilted at first, like two wolves circling each other, seizing the other up, testing for weaknesses, seeing if the other retaliate. You see, both of them are very lonely.  
  
The prince has lived in a stone castle with his sister for his entire life, guarded away from subjects. This, along with his telepathy, has not led to many instances where Charles could form friendships easily, even among the younger servants and the young royalty.  
  
The knight has had even less time to find any companions, even though he is a number of years older than the prince. Erik’s story is a long and unhappy one, and a tale for another time. I digress.  
  
Prince Charles and the knight Erik talk late into the night. Perhaps their loneliness is why they converse so easily. Perhaps it is the novelty of meeting another mutant. Perhaps it is because they _shouldn’t_ \-- a prince from one kingdom and a knight from another -- but perhaps it is none of those things.  
  
Either way, the candles in the Prince’s tent have nearly folded over themselves, leaning lopsided with the weight of melted wax, by the time Erik finally says during a lull in their conversation: “It’s late.”  
  
“It is,” the prince says, and after a pause, Erik excuses himself.  
  
Charles watches him go.  
  
The next morning, the army packs up early, just as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, on the move well before the earth has begun to warm.  
  
They have finished the portion of the journey across flat land, to the ocean, and now the combined armies of the South must travel along the mountain range, up the spine of the continent. It is a treacherous path, but quick and difficult to ambush. The road itself is small, and so the prince and his advisors have decided to split the army into groups, smaller parts of a whole, for ease of transportation. Prince Charles’ contingent will ride second only to the scouts, leading the Westchesteran, Genoshan, Kruvian, and Rosberghan soldiers, who are organized in their respective regiments.  
  
Knight Lehnsherr shadows the prince, the both of them on horseback, as they begin the long trek sloping through the mountains. The army stops for no one.  
  
The dirt path turns away from the ocean, facing instead the mountains. White shores give way to scraggly grass and yellow wildflowers here and there, the land beginning to undulate into hills, into mountains, into cliffs. That only two horses can walk side by side on the path at any given time is an indicator of how often the road is used.  
  
Their procession is a slow but steady one: the scouts and the horsemen in front, followed by the prince, his advisors, and the various generals and sergeants; behind them are the footmen, the physicians, cooks, servants, maids, and the like. The Southern flags hang limply in the breezeless air. All around them is the sound of horse hooves clopping, heavy breathing, and metal clanking against metal.  
  
When they reach the beginnings of the mountains, the army must split into its contingents, to accommodate for the smaller road ahead. As the cavalry moves to make it so, Prince Charles beckons Jean forward with two fingers.  
  
“Tell my page to fetch Knight Lehnsherr,” he tells her.  
  
Jean nods and lets her reins fall slack. As her horse slows, she beckons to the prince’s page. Once the message is relayed, the page dashes off to find Knight Lehnsherr.  
  
The soft neigh of Erik’s horse announces his arrival. “Your Highness,” Erik says. Behind them, the entire contingent is their crowd. Though the soldiers know better than to eavesdrop, Charles keeps his voice low anyway. “You aren’t bearing the Genoshan flag,” Charles notes, as Erik guides his horse close to Cadoc. Erik is, however, bearing his metal amulet conspicuously on his chest.  
  
“Should I be? Sire?”  
  
Charles purses his lips. “You were telling me about Genosha’s blacksmiths.” He refers to the conversation that he and Erik held the previous night.  
  
Erik prepares to respond with something along the lines of, “Shouldn’t you be discussing this with Duke Azazel over a dinner, instead of me?” but Charles anticipates that from Erik’s expression, and quells that kind of response by pointedly clearing his throat.  
  
“Our swords are unlike other Southern swords. Your knives and daggers,” Erik nods towards Charles’ waist, “Are made of ordinary steel. We trade for mithril, from the nomads, and mix that with steel to make stronger, more flexible metal.  
  
“We build smelters for the ore,” Erik says, “A deep pit layered with sand and gravel and clay. On top of that is a trough of bricks, with water and unfired clay as mortar. In the trough goes the alloy, and we wait for it to heat.”  
  
“The harder steel, the lighter metal, forms the edges of the sword. The softer steel, the one that is grayer, and not so bright, is the middle of the sword, the better to bend and absorb the shock of the blow. The metal is worked to rid of impurities, pounded over, folded, heated, then cooled in brine.”  
  
“What of the molds?” Charles interrupts then. “It seems terribly inefficient to mold a sword for every soldier.”  
  
Erik grunts. “We use twine, Your Highness, to measure the hands and the arms, the waist and shoulders. Each sword fits its owner, regardless of whether the owner is king or serf.”  
  
Charles dips his head, allowing the knight to continue.  
  
“The metal is shaped, with the two harder strips as the sides, edges, and points, and a softer piece of metal as the spine of the blade. From there, the blade is contoured, shaped, and then heated and cooled one last time before final polishing.”  
  
Their conversation shifts from metal work to the Xavier castle to the lands beyond the ocean. To document all of their conversation would be to tell a saga that is weeks long, so I will leave it at that, Reader, and trust that you understand my predicament.  
  
And then, a while later, just before the troops halt to make camp on the cliffside, the prince asks, “Will you take off the amulet?”  
  
To this, the knight replies, “Is that an order?”  
  
Charles muses for a moment before thoughtfully replying, all too aware of the troops behind them, “No.”  
  
Evening comes quickly. Jean, Armando, and Alexander take charge, coordinating with the generals and sergeants to confirm plans. All settle in quickly: the servants scuttle out to tend to fires and put stew on the pot, the squires begin polishing armor and swords, and the soldiers begin setting up tents, taking turns on the watch shift.  
  
Jean’s squire, a short, stocky thing, makes her way past the line of soldiers standing watch. The squire navigates past the tents and off the well-worn path. Her boots collide against gravel and rock as she heads for a thin line of trees a stone’s throw away from the edge of camp. After a few minutes of searching, she finds what she’s looking for: a gentle spring, bubbling out cheerily between rocks and moss. A red string she draws out of her britches and ties onto a nearby branch to mark her finding.  
  
The squire reports her discovery back to her knight, and Jean gives a nod of approval. “Go on and tell the Prince.” The squire nods, then hesitates, remembering the invitation to share their fire that Jean had extended to the Genoshan knight a few days before. “Shall I let Knight Lehnsherr know as well?”  
  
Jean takes her bottom lip between her teeth in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation. “I’ll let him know,” she says after a moment.  
  
Her squire nods, bending over in a half-bow, before heading off to relay the message. When she’s finished notifying Armando, Alexander, and Charles’ squires, she will start a fire in front of Jean’s tent and begin boiling water for tea.  
  
Sunset finds Knight Lehnsherr in his modest tent. Though most knights of this day and age have squires to attend to them, Erik does not have one. He is alone in his tent, polishing his armor and helmet, when a voice drifts in the flap in his tent.  
  
“Lehnsherr?”  
  
Erik grunts in acquiescence and Jean steps in, her boot rolling crisply from heel to toe on the mountain gravel underfoot.  
  
As soon as the sharp scent of another Alpha curls into the small tent, Erik straightens from where he’d been bent over examining his metal immediately. “Grey,” Erik acknowledges. She takes in his scent, odd and earthy, and takes in the swell of aggression in his gaze at having another Alpha in his territory.  
  
“My squire found a spring outside of our camp,” Jean says. “You’re welcome to use it to clean up, if you’d like.”  
  
When no stipulation follows, Erik nods once. “Thank you,” he says gruffly.  
  
Jean drags her eyes around Erik’s Spartan tent, over the knives in the corner, the unforgiving cot, the armor. She doesn’t distrust him, but she won’t disregard anything that seems incriminating.  
  
“Is that all?” Erik says.  
  
Jean turns away from the waterskins she was inspecting. “You’re a good soldier,” she says, “But you should be careful.” To anyone else, her statement would seem vague.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erik says.  
  
Jean looks at him. “I’m sure.” She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Just remember,” she continues, “He doesn’t want you for anything other than what he needs.”  
  
“You’re loyal to your prince.”  
  
“As you are to your duke, I’m sure.”  
  
Erik smiles with teeth. “You can leave now.”  
  
“Can I?”  
  
Erik takes a step forward and Jean pushes a hand out to open the flap of the tent. “Don’t forget what I said, Genoshan,” she says as she exits.  
  
Our knight ducks out of the tent a moment later. Jean has already crossed the clearing -- their tents, Armando’s, Alexander’s, Charles’, Jean’s, and Erik’s, have been arranged in a semicircle -- to the fire that sits adjacent to the curve of tents. Jean sits on an overturned log and leans in to speak with her squire, who tends the flames of the campfire.  
  
The Xavier manservant has just started to cross the clearing -- he intends to head into the forest, to gather more wood for the fire -- when Erik motions to him. “Tell me,” the knight says to the manservant, “Which way to the spring?”  
  
It just so happens that, at that same moment, the prince returns from his walk to the spring.  
  
“Leave us, Arthur,” Charles says, dismissing the servant, “I’ll escort the kind knight to the spring. You go ahead and gather some more firewood.”  
  
Though the manservant is surprised by Charles’ statement and order, both the fact that the prince chooses to escort the knight, as well by as the fact that the prince knew Arthur intended to gather more firewood, Arthur gives no indication of surprise, too accustomed to the prince’s uncanny ability to predict intentions and too subservient to show any hesitation.  
  
The manservant leaves with a respectful dip of his head. Both Jean and her squire look up to watch the two men leave. Jean decides not to send the guards after the prince for protection, but only just.  
  
As Charles leads Erik away from their campsite, back up the mountain from where he just came, Erik sees the damp tendrils of hair at the back of the prince’s neck, still dark and curling from the spring.  
  
“This way,” the prince says, almost cheerfully.  
  
Both of them are tall, though the knight taller, so their strides take them to the spring shortly.  
  
“Here we are,” the prince announces, rather unnecessarily, thinks Erik, when he sees the red string hanging on a nearby branch. The sound of purling water fills the air.  
  
Erik waits for the prince to turn around and head back to the tents, but when Charles makes no indication to move, Erik only hesitates a second before moving towards the spring.  
  
The spring is rather steady, pouring out enough water for a grown man to wash comfortably. The water tumbles over worn rocks, falling from above eye-level down the ground.  
  
“Have you worked in smithing before?” The prince picks up their conversation from that evening without a hitch as he leans back against a tree trunk. Erik toes off his boots and tugs off his leather jerkin, then unbuttons his doublet.  
  
“I’ve wanted to.”  
  
“And yet,” Charles leaves a pause for Erik’s answer. The doublet and the jerkin drop to the floor.  
  
“Never had the chance,” Erik shrugs minutely, the subtlest shift of his shoulders. “I lost my parents, then joined the army to feed myself.”  
  
“You’ve been in the army ever since,” Charles finishes, in that same tone that isn’t quite a question.  
  
Erik hums in agreement. He peels off his linen undershirt.  
  
“You could’ve become an apprentice. I’m sure any blacksmith would’ve been lucky to have you as protege.”  
  
Our knight, of all people, knows that on the move, soldiers rarely have a chance to indulge in commodities such as privacy. In this case, he hesitates for only a heartbeat before pushing off his trousers and underwear.  
  
“Fine,” Erik says, “I wanted to join the army.”  
  
“Why?” Charles asks immediately. He tucks his hands into his pockets, settling his weight on the tree trunk behind him.  
  
The knight retorts, “Don’t you know? You know everything about me, don’t you?”  
  
“I want you to tell me,” Charles says easily, but the authority underlying his casualness makes Erik’s skin itch.  
  
Erik steps underneath the cold water of the spring and begins rubbing his arms, his shoulders. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”  
  
“What,” the prince drawls, “Right now?”  
  
The freshwater of the spring is sweet but cold. Erik ducks his head underneath the stream. When he steps out from underneath the water, he says, “Is there a better time?” He reaches down for his clothes.  
  
Charles tilts his head back, resting his head on the tree behind him.  “I could think of a better time when there are less pressing matters at hand.”  
  
Erik freezes, one hand outstretched for his clothes. Without Erik facing him, Charles rakes his gaze over the curve of Erik’s spine, tracing his eyes over the shadow between his legs, the knobs of his knees and his smooth smooth skin. “Pressing matters?”  
  
Charles clears his throat. “Jean,” he says. And then Erik moves again, picking up his underwear and trousers, tugging them on over cold skin. “She thinks you have less than noble intentions.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Meaning you’ll either slit my throat or you’ll sell out Westchester’s secrets to the North.”  
  
Erik’s gaze fixes upon his hands as he fastens up his trousers. “Which do you think it is?”  
  
“Neither,” the prince says.  
  
“You’re confident.”  
  
“Am I wrong?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know myself?”  
  
“No,” the prince says immediately. He pushes himself off of the trunk as Erik refastens his doublet. “You are many things, knight, but indecisive is not one of them.”  
  
“Then maybe you don’t know me so well after all.”  
  
“Or maybe I know you better than you think.”  
  
The knight turns around. He meets Charles’ gaze for the first time since they arrived at the spring. “What do you want from me?”  
  
“I told you,” the prince says. He turns and begins walking back to the camp. “I care for my people. I want to win this war, and you will help me. The question now is whether or not you will do so.”  
  
“I’m here, aren’t I?”  
  
“For what reason?” When Erik doesn’t answer, Charles continues. “What do _you_ want, knight?”  
  
There are a number of things that come to mind when Charles poises that question. “Revenge,” is what Erik finally settles on.  
  
“How convenient,” the prince replies, “That you want Shaw dead, and I want my kingdom safe from his attacks.”  
  
Erik opens his mouth to reply to this, but by now they’ve reached the camp, and Alexander paces up to the prince for an inquiry.  
  
“Come to my tent after supper,” the prince says to the knight before Alexander can speak. It is not an invitation. Erik meets Charles’ gaze and dips his head fractionally before walking away.  
  
  
Erik leaves his tent without waiting for the page to send for him. He wraps up the twine of his metal amulet and places the amulet onto his cot, leaving it behind behind as he approaches Charles’ tent.  
  
“Sire?” he says lowly, and when Charles calls out, “Enter,” Erik ducks into the tent.  
  
They settle down at the table. After Arthur finishes lighting the last candle, Erik speaks without greeting.  
  
“Who else knows?” he demands.  
  
“About my powers?”  
  
Erik nods.  
  
Charles brushes his hair back with one hand. “My sister, my guard. Other than that, no one.”  
  
“Your knights,” Erik says, “They don’t know.”  
  
“My people,” Charles means Jean and Armando and Alexander, “I’m sure they would be accepting. They are loyal. But.” Charles taps his temple knowingly.  
  
“Sometimes secrets slip,” Erik agrees. “In my land,” he says, “They called it witchcraft. Sorcery.”  
  
“Do your people believe in magic?”  
  
The knight hesitates. “Some…” he searches for the right word in English. “Some believe in spirits.” He shifts. “I never did.”  
  
“Your people must admire your prowess as a fighter.”  
  
Erik turns away. “Do you play?” He motions towards the chessboard resting on a nearby table.  
  
“I do.”  
  
This is how they end up playing chess: Erik floats the board over and Charles calls for Arthur. The manservant brings in a bottle and two silver goblets, then leaves as quietly as he came.  
  
“I worry,” the prince says, a few rounds into their first game.  
  
That Erik does not sneer is a testament to how the knight’s respect for the prince has grown within the last few days.  
  
“Raven must find a suitable Alpha before she can ascend to the throne.” Charles pours them wine carefully.  
  
“A daunting task, for a princess so unsure of herself.”  
  
Charles gives Erik a curious look. “That she is. I’d send a messenger for her, but I’m sure the Lord Regent would intercept any kind of message I try to send.”  
  
Erik sips at his wine.  
  
“I know your customs differ,” Charles continues, “In Genosha, the Duke’s closest knights work their way to that position, don’t they?”  
  
“They aren’t born into power,” Erik agrees.  
  
“Propriety dictates that Lord Regent remain in power until Raven finds a suitable mate.”  
  
“Do your people give a damn about propriety?” Erik asks lightly. “Surely Westchester would feel more compelled to follow a prince in favor of his country? Rather than an outsider, such as Lord Marko?”  
  
“Careful now,” Charles smiles, reaching forward and pushing one of his pieces forward. He continues leaning forward even after his fingers leave the rook. “You make it seem as though you favor me.”  
  
Erik continues, his expression flat. “Is the throne not more secure if it is seized by one who fights for the position, rather than one who inherits it?” Erik leans in, half consciously, unwilling to let his space be encroached.  
  
“Is the throne worth that fight, worth slaying fellow citizens, deceiving friends, becoming without faith and religion?” Charles shakes his head. “Tradition preserves peace.”  
  
“Tradition preserves sloth and gluttony. Wealth and power are handed to those who do not deserve it.” Erik flicks his finger and his queen slides forward. “For example, Lord Marko.”  
  
The prince exhales shallowly. “You play with fire, Knight Lehnsherr. It is as though you are asking to be hanged.”  
  
This close, the both of them are curled in each other’s scents, rich and dark and earthy pheromones.  
  
Without acknowledging Charles’ warning, Erik continues. “Tradition breeds softness and indulgence.”  
  
“Your methods may gain empire,” Charles says, “But not glory.”  
  
“What of glory is needed for a man who can claim that his wealth is his own? That his land and his people have been hard won, and not handed to him? That is a glory in and of itself.”  
  
“You have given this much thought for an Alpha who claims he doesn’t want power.”  
  
“Try again.”  
  
Charles’ nostrils flare. He shifts. Erik’s gaze rips away from the chessboard, follows the movement of Charles’ arms, his legs, as the prince leans back in his seat, tilting back his neck. “Your glory would come from the act of plundering. Not the plunder itself.”  
  
The corner of Erik’s mouth curls into half a smile. “Are you reading my mind?”  
  
“You know I am not.”  
  
“How can I?”  
  
“You told me yourself, knight. You knew a telepath, once, didn’t you? You can tell when I touch your mind.”  
  
The candlelight flickers suddenly, even from inside the tent, as the Northern wind strengthens. The light dances across the column of Erik’s throat.  
  
Erik looks at the board thoughtfully. “And if I could read your mind, Charles? What would I see?”  
  
The prince does not bother to correct the way that the knight addresses him.  
  
Charles reaches for his drink. He presses the silver rim of the goblet to his mouth before he sips, wondering if Erik can feel the warmth of his lips, the quickening of his pulse.  
  
“It is a good thing you cannot, my friend.”  
  
  
The army pushes on.  
  
They are closer to the Northern lands than they are to the South, now, but Prince Charles does not relent. The army and its generals continue pushing towards the border.  
  
It’s been a few days when the ambush comes.  
  
The steadfast knight, Alexander, is on watch when the first Northern soldiers climb over the mountain range.  
  
“Armando,” Alexander calls out, lowly, for all he can only see dark shadows skirting over the ridge of the mountain they camp beside. “Armando, I think -- ”  
  
The first arrow whistles in the night and Alexander shouts, “Sound the horn!”  
  
The bugle cries out and the Westchester regiment of the army is roused into action. Alexander seizes his sword and shield from where they lay on the grass and immediately runs across their encampment, up the sloping earth to meet the ambushers, banging his sword against his shield along the way.  
  
The knights, the foot soldiers, the servants -- they all come running out to face the fight. These are a people all too familiar with war; they emerge from their tents with swords in hand, still dressed in their leather jerkins and shoes, no matter the time of day.  
  
Luckily, there is only a small band of intruders, no more than two dozen ruffians with the Northern insignia emblazoned on their shields. The Westchester troops fend off their attack easily, Prince Charles, Knight Grey, and Knight Lehnsherr on horseback, chasing the bandits away from the camp.  
  
“Leave them,” Prince Charles calls out, as both Erik and Jean urge their horses to pursue, as the ambushers begin to disappear over the ridge of the hill. Jean turns around almost immediately, but Erik’s steed does not relent.  
  
“Lehnsherr,” Charles calls out, and the prince repeats himself in Erik’s mind as well, for the knight does not wear his amulet. _Let them go_ , the prince thinks firmly.  
  
With reluctance, Erik guides his horse away, letting go of his hold on the soldiers’ helmets. He had planned to crush their heads within their skulls.  
  
“You let them go,” Erik says, as soon as he is close enough to the prince to be heard.  
  
“I did,” the prince says, barely glancing at the knight. “Now, gather everyone around. Make sure that no one is hurt. Armando, fetch the physician. I want at least two Alphas on watch at all times, and a messenger sent to the other regiments. Let them know what happened, but do not scare them.”  
  
“You let them go,” Erik repeats, louder, over the sound of hooves clopping as they ride back down to the camp.  
  
“I understand you have a history with those soldiers,” Charles says sternly, suddenly aware of the soldiers around them, listening in, “But you answer to me, Lehnsherr, and when I give an order, you follow.”  
  
“You could’ve -- ”  
  
“The rest of you are dismissed,” the prince says curtly, addressing the others around them.  
  
“You could’ve captured them as prisoners,” the knight argues.  
  
“When there are barely enough rations for my own men? No, knight, I think both you and I know that the best decision was to let them go.”  
  
Erik jerks his reins. The knight’s steed neighs and cuts across the grass, in front of the prince.  
  
Charles stops his horse Cadoc with a jolt. “Out of my way, Lehnsherr. I’ve tolerated your insolence, but no more. You shall not address me like that in front of my soldiers, and you will answer when I call.”  
  
“You knew what you were getting into when you asked me to accompany you,” Erik says lowly, “You know what I came here for, _sire_.”  
  
“Yes,” Charles snaps impatiently, “But we will do it my way. You are under my orders, Lehnsherr. Do not forget it.”  
  
Erik swears under his breath. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”  
  
“Shaw? Of course I don’t. That’s why you’re here, knight.”  
  
“You know,” Erik hisses, “You know what he did to me, my family.”  
  
Charles looks back at the knight stonily. After a long pause, Charles exhales shallowly. “Follow me.”  
  
The prince guides Cadoc to the thicket of trees a little ways away from their camp. When they reach the trees, the soft grass and moss underfoot muffles the clop of their horses. Both of them breathe heavily, their metal armor clanking gently as their chests heave. “Do you know why I stopped you?”  
  
Erik is stoic.  
  
Charles sighs and dismounts. He paces; Cadoc whinnies and noses the grass growing on the ground. “You are blinded by your grief, my friend. You do not see the trap that Shaw has set for you.”  
  
“What -- ”  
  
“An ambush, of no more than two dozen warriors, against our entire army? They weren’t looking for a fight, my friend. They were looking for you.”  
  
“So what,” Erik growls, dismounting as well. “I am coming for Shaw and he knows this.”  
  
“You are one man in an army, you cannot -- ”  
  
“I _can_ ,” Erik insists, stalking forward, following Charles. Erik reaches out and grabs Charles’ arm. “You don’t know anything about me.”  
  
Charles’ blood is still thrumming with adrenaline from the thrill of the chase, the hunt, the cold night air. This is why he rips his sword out of its sheath, the blade whistling through the air, and points it at the knight’s chest.  
  
“Draw your sword.”  
  
“I don’t -- ”  
  
Charles repeats himself, a little sharper. “Draw your sword, Lehnsherr.”  
  
Erik hesitates for a moment, but the cloying scent of Charles’ pheromones hangs over his head and his blood is rushing through his veins. Both of them hunger.  
  
Erik draws his sword in a heartbeat, slamming the flat of his blade against Charles’, pushing the prince back. Charles grins.  
  
Though Erik may be one of the most talented swordsmen in Genosha, the prince has trained with knights since a very young age. In the dense woods, little moonlight reaches them, but the light that does manage to filter through the leaves glints off their swords, their armor. The sound of metal clanging against metal soon fills the forest as they duel.  
  
“What brings this on, Your Highness,” Erik manages to rasp between blows. Charles does not relent, pushing forward with all the anger he has buried deep within himself. Erik falls on the defensive, letting Charles gain ground until the back of the knight’s knees thud against a fallen trunk.  
  
Though Erik feels the tremors in both of their swords, he lets Charles press the flat of his blade down on Erik’s shoulder, the edge of his sword a hair away from Erik’s neck.  
  
“You say you know of power like mine,” Charles pants. “You say you know of princes like me. Shouldn’t you know what this is?”  
  
Erik meets Charles’ gaze steadily. With every breath, his chest rises and falls, and Erik feels the hum of the sword next to his neck.  
  
“I’m not going to make this easy for you, Erik,” Charles says.  
  
Erik is unsure of what the prince is referring to.  
  
“You can’t call me that,” Erik says, his lip curling unpleasantly.  
  
“I can call you whatever I want, knight. I’m the prince.”  
  
“I could stop you,” Erik tilts his head, indicating the metal of the prince’s sword.  
  
“So stop me,” Charles retorts.  
  
The world is quiet for a moment.  
  
The weight of Charles’ sword pushes heavy on Erik’s shoulder. The knight considers, for a moment, reaching out and grabbing the metal. It would melt like butter under his touch and then reshape into something he could grasp, something he could tug so that Erik could pull Charles down, push him into the dirt. The sword twitches.  
  
“Kneel,” Charles says. His voice is hoarse.  
  
The night sky blinks down at them indifferently. The sound of men laughing floats through the woods.  
  
Erik lets one knee hit the grass and moss with a heavy thunk. Charles’ sword is heavy on his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck. Erik doesn’t push it away. Instead, he lets his other knee fall slack, until bone hits ground and he’s kneeling on the forest floor in front of the prince.  
  
With the tip of his sword, Charles scrapes the thin material of Erik’s collar. Erik doesn’t look up, doesn’t tilt his head; he smells the faint undercurrent of spice, the faint scent of pheromones in the air.  
  
If they were different, if one were an Omega, if one weren’t royalty and if one weren’t so intent on revenge, perhaps it would be much easier for them. But alas, if it were so simple, this would be no story for the telling.  
  
This is a complicated thing, see. It’s a push and pull, to see how far the other will go. There is only just enough trust for them to balance this relationship, for the prince could easily have Knight Lehnsherr hanged, and the knight could consequently provide the North, or even Genosha for that matter, with coveted information.  
  
At that point, Charles finally tears his gaze away. Something -- perhaps a shift in the wind, perhaps a stray thought from camp -- distracts him. He clicks his tongue and Cadoc trots up to him obediently. “Get up,” Charles says blandly, without looking at Erik. “We have to move.”  
  
Erik rises gracefully and tugs on the metal of his steed’s bit.  
  
As they make way back to the camp, Charles has half a mind to speak, but there’s an implicit current of tension between them, something that has Erik’s jaw tight, Charles’ tongue unmoving.  
  
It’s still dark by the time they return. Daybreak will come within a few hours, but for now, all of the soldiers and servants have returned to their tents, desperate for any sleep before the morning comes and they move once more.  
  
All of the soldiers and servants, save for Jean, Armando, Alexander, a few of the generals speaking quietly around the campfire, clearly making plans.  
  
“Get some sleep, knight,” Charles says, as he begins to move towards his advisors. “We wake early tomorrow.”  
  
Erik makes a vague noise of acknowledgement.  
  
Charles stops. “Do I make myself clear?”  
  
Erik turns and replies easily, “Of course, sir,” with a half bow. To Charles, it feels less like acquiescence and more like a challenge.  
  
The remainder of the evening comes and goes quickly. The prince and his advisors review their plans and the loyal knight disappears into his tent.  
  
Inside his tent, Erik strips off his armor and his leather. He takes off the trousers as an afterthought, examining the dirt stains on the knees before tossing them aside. He crawls into his sparse cot and falls into a deep sleep.  
  
The morning bugle wakes the entire camp relatively quick. The smell of reheated leftovers -- porridge and cooked meat -- along with bread, cheese, and raw onion fills the air as the few servants prepare a light breakfast for the troops.  
  
Let me explain to you, Reader, how the camps in those times were arranged. The tents of nobility, the royal guard, and the generals are grouped around one fire, while there are several other fires, a little farther away, for the footsmen and the rest of the cavalry. It is at one of the latter fires that a conversation of our interest takes place.  
  
“How else would they know?” one footsoldier says.  
  
“There’s no other way,” another agrees.  
  
You see, a weak ambush is an ambush nonetheless, and the people of Westchester are careful. And rightly so, because there have been spies among them before.  
  
“I just don’t trust him. We all know that he’s been in the North, who knows what he’s here for.”  
  
“But you trust the prince, don’t you? Xavier knows what he’s doing.”  
  
“Still,” the first soldier says.  
  
In a time of war, such as this, save for the moments actually on the battlefield, our soldiers often find life tedious. There is little to break from the monotony of rising early, polishing armor, traveling from one campsite to the next. As such, even the smallest news spreads like wildfire. By the end of the day, nearly the entire Westchesteran army will believe that Erik Lehnsherr is a spy for the North.  
  
The accused acts oblivious. He carries on, urging his steed up to accompany the prince, as they move to the next destination, farther up the mountain range. If Knight Lehnsherr notices the quiet murmurs or the pointed glances, he gives no indication of it.  
  
“Erik,” the prince greets warmly, as though they were longtime friends. “Sleep well?”  
  
Erik begins to answer shortly, “Fine,” when he is interrupted.  
  
_It would do you well to not to be so curt, my friend_ , Charles projects, directly into Erik’s mind. It’s the first time he’s done so, but Erik gives no outward indication of acknowledgment.  
  
“Fine, sir,” Erik says.  
  
Charles hums under his breath, almost annoyingly cheery. “You have a lot on your mind today.”  
  
_Stay out of my head, princeling_ , Erik thinks, voice perhaps a little unpracticed, but still strong.  
  
“I received a letter from Raven this morning,” Charles says.  
  
Erik frowns. “This morning?”  
  
“A messenger came in. I’m almost certain that Lord Marko wrote the letter however.”  
  
A pause. Then, “Have you ever considered,” Erik begins.  
  
“No,” Charles anticipates the question. “I am prince, and I am happy with that. I wish for nothing more, save for Raven’s happiness and wellbeing.”  
  
“How selfless of you,” Erik murmurs dryly.  
  
“You think too highly of me,” Charles says. A smile quirks his lips. The prince flicks his reins. They have a long ride ahead of them.

 


	4. four

With a war hanging over it, the Westchester castle seems subdued.  
  
The servants are quiet, the scullery maids subdued, and the young children in the village unusually still. To our young princess, the quiet is unnerving, but the thing that Raven misses the most is Charles.   
  
Raven had meant to tell Charles that Erik was powerful, that he was like them, but now Charles had gone and Raven does not trust any messenger enough to send for him.   
  
Instead, she lets Acting Regent Marko write a letter and ignores the foreign royalty in their castle. Now, she decides to bring Logan some alcohol, and a plate of the last bit of venison from the knights’ last hunt. Princess Raven tips the contents of her vial into the glass of ale before she can think better of it.   
  
If his oaths did not bind him to protect the throne, the old guard Logan is sure to be on the frontlines in any war, his very nature driving him to seek out a fight in the way hounds seek out blood. But alas, his oaths bind him so, and so he stays in the castle. Duty obligates him to protect all heirs to the throne.   
  
On this particular evening, Logan broods in his room, on the ground floor of the castle. Though his chambers are nowhere near as opulent as those of the Lord Marko, or even Prince Charles’, the old guard’s quarters are comfortable: thick cushions atop wooden stools, straight-backed chairs made of hardwood facing an empty stone fireplace, a heavy metal contraption vaguely resembling a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, various dark tapestries covering the white stone walls.   
  
Even as Logan sits in one of his hardwood chairs, he thinks of his last argument with the princess. Never would the old guard take an action to hurt the princess, or to help Lord Marko, but Logan has lived in the castle for longer than both the princess or the prince have been alive, and he knows the inner workings of Marko’s mind. The way the princess hopes to assert herself won’t work, not in the way she hopes.   
  
Regardless, the old guard regrets the way he handled their -- that is, his and the princess’ -- argument. He mulls over the broken chain just as there comes a knocking at his wooden door.   
  
“Come in,” Logan calls.   
  
“Ah, Princess,” Logan says, as Raven steps inside. She kicks her foot delicately so that the last of the purple hem of her dress makes it inside the room just as the wooden door creaks shut. “I was just thinking, I wanted to apologize -- ”   
  
“I wanted to apologize too,” Raven says quickly. “I shouldn’t have broken the chain -- ”   
  
“Oh, good,” Logan says, clearly relieved, “I just -- what’s this?”   
  
“Look, I even brought you something, to apologize.” Raven proffers the metal tray. “Just for you. Special.”   
  
“What -- ”   
  
“Stole some of the last venison for you, and a little small ale too.” The princess grins.   
  
“We’re on rations, you do realize,” the old guard says, only half chastising.   
  
“Go on, have a drink,” Raven says.   
  
“I was going to say, Princess, that -- ”   
  
But the princess insists, and she is nothing if not persistent, so before Logan manages to get an apology out, he has a sip of the ale.   
  
“How do you feel?” Raven asks eagerly.   
  
“Mm,” the old guard smacks his lips, “What is that?”   
  
“Different?”   
  
Logan frowns. “Tastes a bit bitter… ”   
  
Raven rolls her weight onto her toes, and then back onto the balls of her feet. “So about the marriage and all that,” she trails off.   
  
Coughing, Logan reaches out and stabs a piece of venison with his dagger, sticks the bit of meat into his mouth. He shakes his head, as though clearing his palette.   
  
Raven blinks eagerly. “Why don’t we go upstairs and talk to the others? Put this whole mess to rest.”   
  
“Christ, Princess, I don’t feel so good,” the guard manages.   
  
“Logan?”   
  
  
  
In the darkness, there comes a slow awakening.   
  
First, there is nothing: just the quiet and the stillness -- impossible to imagine if you, the Reader, might live in a city or a suburban area. If you were to open your eyes, then close them, there would be no difference -- this is how dark it is.   
  
They’ve quartered themselves in a cave, high up in the mountains. The rest of the soldiers have camped outside; the other knights are on watch. As the Genoshan knight and the prince breathe shallowly, their breaths condense in the air. It is cold.   
  
Then there is the smell of earth after rain, of morning dew. There is the taste of salt and pine in the air, and underneath that, the low undertow of spice and pheromone as they both awaken slowly. They both know that the other is awake, but neither of them makes move to rise.   
  
There’s space between them still, about half a meter in length, but this is less space than with which they began at the beginning of the night. Erik is flat on his back, Charles is curled up on his side. Underneath both their bodies is thick cloth to protect them from the freezing ground. Underneath Charles’ hipbone is his shield; he had rolled over it during the night.     
  
Charles slackens his jaw and scents the air. His fist curls into his side. An arm’s distance away, Erik breathes shallowly, his breath the only noise in the cave save for the wind.   
  
Charles turns. His hip incidentally presses harder into his shield, the bone jutting into metal; Erik inhales half a breath sharply.   
  
Outside, the sun begins to rise. Light peers into the mouth of the cave.   
  
Charles shifts his hips again, minutely, in an effort to rise, but it’s enough to press his arousal against the shield. Erik’s nostrils flare.   
  
“Your Highness,” Jean’s voice drifts into the cave from the outside world. The knight stiffens; the prince’s fist unfurls. Half a second passes in silence.   
  
“I’ll be there in a moment, Jean. You are dismissed.”   
  
Prince Charles lingers for a heartbeat more, then rises to exit the cave. Our knight lies there for a long while before getting up to follow. As the army breaks down camp, the troops move further inland.   
  
The soldiers have few opportunities to feed their indulgences. Their tempers have worn down to the quick. Tensions run high between the three groups of soldiers, as rival soldiers are so often wont to be. Bellies are hungry, from both meager rations of old cheese and stale bread, and from the hard work of constantly being on the move. And a weak ambush is an ambush nonetheless. Consequently, talk of spies and distrust has swirled over the soldiers’ heads like a dark storm cloud.   
  
The murmurs, the whispers, the outright staring become rude to the point where Prince Charles sees it necessary to step in.   
  
The night before they reach the border, the prince calls the higher ranking soldiers and generals in. They arrange themselves around a campfire. Normally, in the comfort of a castle, the prince would be seated upon his throne, and his audience assorted in front of him, but tonight, Charles settles for standing across from the semicircle formed by his subjects.   
  
“Tomorrow we reach the border,” Charles says once the last knight has trickled in. Immediately, the crowd hushes respectfully. Prince Charles goes on to explain the battlefield of the next morning, the formation, the charge. All of this is as any other night before battle would be.   
  
However, the prince knows that his soldiers are unhappy, and as such, after concluding his overview of the fight, he addresses the issue hanging over their heads.   
  
“Tomorrow we reach the border,” the prince says again, “We do not know how long we will stay here, how long until the dispute is resolved, but until then, there will be no more talk of mutiny. There will be no more accusations. We have come together to defend our kingdoms and no more. I would not have selected you all if I didn’t have the utmost faith in your loyalty.” Charles’ gaze sweeps across his people but lingers on Knight Lehnsherr. “I do understand that, in our haste to depart, many of you have doubts about one another.” Again, Charles looks across the fire, where his soldiers shift uncomfortably. “To address this, I will accept all of your oaths of fealty now.”   
  
From where she stands to the prince’s left, Jean the Knight stifles a noise of protest. Tradition dictates that the commendation ceremony is to be conducted with fanfare and documentation; however, the clever knight understands Prince Charles’ predicament, and consequently bows her head in agreement.   
  
“Who shall be first?” the prince raises a hand, gesturing towards the crowd.   
  
Reader, it would do good to remember that, in this time, the idea of fealty is the very basis of feudalism. An oath of fealty is not taken lightly; the oath and its preceding act of homage are meant to bind a lord and his vassal. To break an oath of fidelity would be to incur divine punishment.   
  
And because of this, many of the other Alphas hesitate.   
  
But the crowd parts as Knight Lehnsherr pushes through. “I,” he says.   
  
Erik makes his way around the fire, slowly, to come closer to the prince. Erik’s gaze is steely.   
  
He comes within an arms’ distance of the prince. Erik removes his helm and places his sword to the side, then he sinks gracefully to one, then two knees. Knight Lehnsherr bows his head in an act of homage.   
  
Though he does not don his crown nor his ceremonial robes, the prince carries himself as any prince is wont to do: he assumes a stiff stance, pulls out his sword to lay the flat of the blade heavy on the knight’s shoulder, then says, “I will hear your oath, now.”   
  
Erik clasps his hands in front of him, as if in prayer, then recites dutifully. “I promise on my faith that I will, in the future, be faithful to the lord, never cause him harm, and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”   
  
“I accept your oath,” the prince says. “You may rise.”   
  
Erik rises, and after a pause, moves to retrieve his belongings from where they are strewn on the ground by the fire.   
  
Charles looks away. “Who is next?”   
  
One by one, slowly if not reluctantly, the remaining Alphas step forward to follow in swearing fealty to the prince. When they’ve finished, Charles, satisfied, nods, and says, “You are dismissed,” to the audience at large.   
  
Silently the crowd filters away, back to a much needed night’s rest before the first battle the next morn. Knight Lehnsherr catches the prince’s gaze across the flickering fire and stares impassively before breaking away as well.   
  
As the others leave, Erik turns and heads the opposite directions, towards the thicket of woods a distance away instead of a warm tent.   
  
Though outwardly the knight gives no appearance of being angry, his jaw is tense and Prince Charles quickly makes way to follow the knight away from camp.   
  
The woods are lovely and dark and deep. But Charles has no time to appreciate the fresh smell of earth nor the soft feel of moss and pine needles underfoot. Ahead of him, Knight Lehnsherr’s silhouette is dark against the trees.   
  
The prince catches up to the Knight, though not without effort. Erik stares straight ahead, walking through the trees with more determination than necessary. Charles matches Erik stride for stride but does not speak.   
  
“You forced my hand,” Knight Lehnsherr says eventually, his voice tight.   
  
“I did not. You swore your oath willingly, and without persuasion on my behalf.”   
  
“I was pressured into swearing fealty,” Erik frowns. An Alpha like him takes these kinds of oaths especially seriously. “You know as well as I do that I am the only one the others distrusted.”   
  
“When have you ever let such circumstances affect your decision making? I did not affect you, loyal knight, you swore of your own will.”   
  
Erik grapples with something inwardly for a moment.   
  
Charles steps closer.   
  
“Don’t,” Erik warns but he doesn’t move to step away.   
  
Charles waits for a second and then steps deliberately closer.   
  
Erik’s blade whistles through the air as it flies out. Really, the prince should know better: he has seen it the knight work intimately with metal, but regardless, Charles draws his sword as well. Their blades meet with a resounding clang, and they spar.   
  
Charles’ technique resists for a few moments before he is forced to parry Erik’s attacks. They’ve fought before but Erik wasn’t angry then.   
  
Within seconds both Alphas begin to pant heavily; within minutes both Alphas are sweating freely. The sound of clanging metal fills the forest, louder and louder and louder still, until Erik’s anger swells and he tears Charles’ sword away with his powers. Charles’ jaw is slack and Erik’s nostrils flare.   
  
Both swords hit the moss-covered ground with a thump; Erik reaches out and grabs Charles’ collar, drags him in for a fist fight and --   
  
And then they’re brawling with their hands.   
  
Charles has a bone knife tucked in his boot. Erik knows this as well, and grapples with Charles to twist him towards the trees behind them. But then Charles grunts and yanks, pulling both of them off kilter and it seems inevitable that they end up grappling on the forest floor.   
  
Erik pins Charles down and his knee slips in between Charles’ thighs. When he feels Charles’ arousal, he freezes, as though he is surprised.   
  
Charles’ expression twists. “I -- ”   
  
Charles jerks. He tries to push down on Erik’s shoulder, to push himself up and away from the encroaching heat of Erik’s body. But at the same time, Erik moves, readjusting his grip on Charles’ tunic so his elbow isn’t bent uncomfortably anymore.   
  
Charles shifts up the same time Erik moves down. Their breaths mingle as Charles’ groin rubs against Erik’s thigh. Suddenly white noise rushes in Charles’ ears. He can barely hear the choked noise that comes out from his throat over the dizzying rush.   
  
Above him, Erik freezes once more.   
  
Charles’ white tunic is ripped at the collar from where Erik grabbed it. Erik’s breath against Charles’ throat causes him to shudder involuntarily.   
  
When Erik’s hips twitch, very slightly, it seems almost seems hesitant. His grip -- one hand in the soft earth near Charles’ ear, the other fisted into the rumpled remains of Charles’ fine tunic -- tightens, almost impossibly so.   
  
Warm air rushes against Erik’s cheek. “Let me up,” Charles rasps.   
  
They break away. Erik rushes to his feet, and his sword flies back into his hand. Still on his knees, Charles breathes heavily for a moment.   
  
“Why are you so -- ” Charles struggles with a word, then pushes several into Erik’s mind: _so afraid? Cautious? So quick to anger and assumptions?_   
  
Erik turns away. “It’s what’s kept me alive all this time.   
  
They both ignore the smell of pheromones in the air, pungent yet faint. Damp wool rasps against skin; Erik imagines the ability to control skin instead of metal.   
  
“We’re finished here,” Charles says, finally standing. He reaches for his sword. “Get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”   
  
Erik lingers for a moment before turning away.   
  
  
  
They’ve traveled long enough for the soldiers to begin to itch when they begin to approach the border. Their first battle is a small one: only a few hours long, with barely any casualties from each side. They fight from morning to afternoon, without fanfare or ceremony. The knights and higher-ranking cavalry lead the lines, but it’s a small, flat field. The Northern troops retreat after only a few hours.   
  
“They’re trying to draw us in,” notes advisor Armando afterwards, as they pore over their maps in the security of Charles’ tent.   
  
“They want us close,” agrees Jean. “On less even fighting ground. Towards the mountains and the slopes.”   
  
Charles puts his hand on his chin.   
  
“They know the terrain there better than us,” Alexander interjects. “If we continue pursuing, they’ll have the advantage of familiar land.”   
  
“We’ll push forward,” Charles decides. He taps the map. “We didn’t travel this far to retreat.”   
  
On the fifth day of fighting, the Northern troops sound a bugle. Their soldiers flee in the middle of a battle, black armor darting over rocks, between uneven ground, back towards their base on the other side of a knoll.   
  
“They’re retreating,” Jean turns away from where she rides at the front of the troops. “They’re retreating!”   
  
“Let them go,” Charles commands, signalling the regiment to fall back, “Do not pursue!”   
  
The troops fall back, whooping at their apparent victory. Charles does not tell them not to celebrate. Morale is a weapon in and of itself, Reader, and this is a weapon that Charles wields carefully.   
  
Our Southern troops fall back reluctantly, forming back up to treat the wounded and grieve for the dead. Yet, their five-day pursuit of the Northern troops has led them very close to the Northern lands. They fight on the border, between the two lands.   
  
There is, however, a small Southern dwelling perched on the edge of the border. Some troops head to this nearby village to pillage for food. Charles cannot stop them, though he does not approve. War is war: during times of fighting, the soldiers rise up to the occasion, and it’s best to let them celebrate for the time being.   
  
As we look back to the Westchester regiment, the medics Sean Cassidy and Angel Salvadore rush out to mend the fallen. The camp cooks start the fires and begin settling in for the night.   
  
“Cassidy,” advisor Armando beckons. “Over here.”   
  
“Where is he hurt,” Cassidy pants, dropping all of his supplies in a rush, onto the ground next to where advisor Alexander lies.   
  
“Here, his leg. Sword cut through his thigh when he was turned.”   
  
Blood seeps freely from Alexander’s wound. Armando clutches Alexander tightly as Cassidy quickly binds a tourniquet. “Keep pressure here,” Cassidy commands, “I’ll wrap the gauze around.”   
  
Despite the abundance of blood and gauze, for the most part, the Southern army has suffered little casualties. As such, the troops break out their casks of beer and whoop and holler when some soldiers bring back a few Omega whores from the village.   
  
Most of this commotion takes place around the fires on the outskirts of camp: where the footmen and cavalry dwell.   
  
In the heart of the regiment, Knight Lehnsherr slips into the prince’s tent.   
  
The prince follows a few minutes later, after finishing his rounds around camp, comforting the wounded and congratulating the troops.   
  
The red-gold material of Charles’ tent flap parts like silk. The prince takes two steps into his mostly dark tent before pausing. He frowns. “Where’s my manservant?”   
  
“With the whores,” Erik replies, from where he’s examining the map splayed across the table.   
  
“And you?”   
  
Erik’s lip curls. “And you?”   
  
Charles snorts. He shrugs off his metal helmet and pulls off his gauntlets. Erik moves towards Charles. When Charles begins fumbling with his metal chestplate, Erik steps forward. Charles’ hands still when he feels the metal lifting.   
  
Underneath the armor, Charles’ hemp undershirt is soaked through with sweat, and his trousers are bloody.   
  
Erik frowns. He gestures. “Is that your blood?”   
  
“No,” Charles steps away. He lights a candle and sinks into an armchair with a low groan. “Not mine.”   
  
“And you?” Charles asks. “Are you wounded?”   
  
Erik shrugs off his doublet. Charles’ expression pinches. “You are,” Charles says, standing, “Let me have a look.”   
  
It’s not a shallow wound, but not very deep either; perhaps about the depth of the tip of Erik’s finger to his first knuckle. The wound stretches about a hand’s width across his back, on the blade of his shoulders, but Erik has endured worse, and ignored it.   
  
“How did you come by this?” Charles asks, moving about his tent to get a wet cloth and gauze.   
  
“Bone knife,” Erik explains. “Got too close and he dug it into me.”   
  
“Come,” Charles beckons, sitting down in his chair. Slouching slightly, Charles shifts his knees apart. “Let me look at it for you.”   
  
As Erik walks forward slowly, Charles gestures at him to sit down on the floor. On the table, the candle flickers.   
  
Erik hesitates before sinking slowly to his knees, then shifting his weight so that he sits flat on his backside.   
  
Charles reaches out and tugs Erik by the shoulders, pulling him back so that Erik’s spine hits the lip of the seat of the wooden chair. The cotton shirt left underneath peels off in a layer of grime and sweat and blood. Erik tosses it aside.   
  
The coppery smell of blood fills the air. To Charles’ left, a metal bucket of warm water sits on the floor. Into this Charles dunks his cloth, and sets about to wiping the wound clean efficiently. Salt and pine and spice mix in the air. The clear water in the bucket quickly turns cloudy.   
  
“Tell me of your travels,” Charles says. To the prince, this seems to be the safest topic of discussion at the moment.   
  
Erik shifts slightly, stretching out his legs. “A long time ago, when I was a younger man,” he begins slowly, “I traveled on behalf of my Lord at the time. I took a bilander, some men, and crossed the sea, towards the West. Further west than I’d ever been.”   
  
As Erik speaks, Charles presses gauze onto his shoulder.   
  
“A month long at sea took us to a port called Yo’avit. It’s a city built on a cliff, overlooking the port and the sea. The walls are made entirely of clay, and there is no glass for windows -- instead just spaces where windows should be. I landed here in the summer, in the midst of summer trading.   
  
“Since Yo’avit was a port city, there were travelers from near and far, from lands I’d never heard of, selling goods that didn’t seem real. My King had sent me with gold and armor and other blacksmith work, which I was meant to trade for.”   
  
Erik weaves a tale of how he wandered the streets of Yo’avit, barefoot in the sun-soaked city, exploring the citadel and the torpor. “It was my first time overseas,” he says, “And it was the first time I could forget, if only for a little bit.”   
  
Charles runs his hand through Erik’s hair, a movement entirely unnecessary; the strands of hair are stringy and coarse with sweat, but smell like rich and dark earth, like danger, like fire.   
  
“I could see you as a merchant,” Charles says idly, tugging gently on Erik’s hair. “A bit irascible, but a good one.”   
  
Erik leans back into Charles’ touch, the column of his neck bared.   
  
“Turn around.”   
  
Erik turns around, knees on the ground and tucked underneath Charles’ chair; and Charles’ gaze catches on a cut on Erik’s cheek. He reaches down to dab it. Erik has to tilt his head back to view Charles and --   
  
Our Charles, my Reader, is a man of tradition and propriety; he believes in peace and diplomacy. Erik doesn’t hesitate in exacting his anger, and will reach for his powers more often than not to destroy the aristocracy that took his family away. Two Alphas could never have been more different.   
  
But they’re here, now, and that familiar undercurrent of pheromones is back again, heady and dangerous, threatening to drag both of them under.   
  
Charles drags his thumb down Erik’s cheek. Erik lets his lips part as he scents the air, pupils blown. His knees dig into the tarp of the tent, into the soft ground beneath it. To anyone else, the stance that the knight has assumed would be aching by now; but he is used to the pain and he ignores it, looking up at Charles instead.   
  
“If you don’t want this, leave now,” Charles breathes out.   
  
“And what is this,” Erik says lowly, “Your Highness?”   
  
Charles’ nostrils flare and he shifts his legs. His trousers are thick, but not thick enough to hide the bulge at the placket of his pants.   
  
Erik shifts his weight forward, onto his knees as he leans up a bit; he puts a hand on the expanse of Charles’ thigh. Charles’ knuckles whiten as he grips his fingers into a fist.   
  
Erik splays his hand across Charles’ thigh. Charles has seen work but Erik has lived it: his hands are rough and calloused, huge and tan.   
  
Charles runs his hands through Erik’s hair, tugs slightly, tilting back Erik’s chin. Candlelight dances on Erik’s throat and Charles indulges for a minute: he admires the way the light waltzes at the dip of Erik’s neck, on his metal amulet. Charles reaches out to touch the pulsing skin there.   
  
After a minute, Charles pulls away. “Stay here,” he murmurs and he lets go.   
  
Erik sways a bit but does as he’s told.   
  
Charles stands and walks to the other side of the tent for a clean cloth. Erik, from where he kneels in front of the now-empty chair, inhales deeply. The air feels fresh and clean now, free of Charles’ scent.   
  
Not for long: Charles returns, cloth in hand. He sits back down and Erik looks up expectantly.   
  
Warm water drips onto Erik’s chest when Charles begins cleaning his neck, his shoulders. Broad strokes of the cloth quickly wipe down the film of grime coating Erik’s skin.   
  
“Are you sure of this,” Charles murmurs, not quite a question. He runs a thumb over Erik’s bare skin and revels in the goosebumps.   
  
“Are you asking of me, or for you, Charles?”   
  
Charles’ eyes darken and he grips Erik’s hair. “If we are to do this, you must listen to what I say. You may address me as Charles, here, like this, but not in front of anyone else.”   
  
Erik’s lips quirk. “Of course sir.”   
  
To Charles, Erik smells like clean sweat and metal and sun and earth; he smells like everything they tried to clean out of Westchester castle during those summer days that Charles came back from the forest, the taste of Erik on Charles’ tongue like everything Charles can’t have.   
  
Rustling from the front of the tent indicates that Arthur has returned from his gallivanting with the village whores.   
  
“Get up,” Charles says to Erik.   
  
They both rise. “Tomorrow then, sire,” Erik says. He turns and exits the tent just as Arthur enters.   
  
“Everything alright, my Prince?” Arthur pants. Charles watches Erik go.   
  
When the flap shuts, Charles turns back to Arthur, who stands expectantly.   
  
“Your shirt’s done up wrong,” Charles says, and turns back to his cot, eager for a night of sleep.   
  
  
  
Rocky and uneven underfoot becomes the mountainside as the army pushes forward the next day. The battling becomes long and tedious, under heavy armor and under bright winter sun. Knight Lehnsherr and Knight Grey lead the lines, two formidable soldiers who push through Northern ranks quickly.   
  
But the Northern troops have advantage of size: more and more of their soldiers pour in, flooding the rocky slopes. However, by midday, more Northern troops have fallen than Southern ones: with high morale, the soldiers fight stronger, faster, and smarter. It doesn’t come as a surprise when the Northern troops raise a flag calling for truce.   
  
“Hold your lines,” Jean calls out. The black-clad Northern soldiers retreat hastily, save for a single, brave messenger, who dares venture forward holding a white flag.   
  
“A message,” the girl cries out.   
  
Jean sniffs. “Obviously,” she says. Next to her, Erik snorts in amusement.   
  
The messenger’s horse trots closer. “A message, for Prince Xavier,” the messenger says to Jean and Erik.   
  
“Let’s hear it then,” Jean says. Charles is further back, too far to call forward.   
  
“King Shaw,” the messenger reads off her scroll, “Requests an immediate ceasefire and withdrawal of troops. The Southern armies are strong, but few in number. King Shaw’s mercy will allow the Southern troops three days of amnesty, to heal your wounded and bury your dead. He does request that the Southern troops leave our land before sunset on the third day, but before then, an audience.”   
  
“Shaw wants an audience?” Erik leans forward. His expression is unreadable.   
  
“King Shaw would like to meet and discuss with the following: Prince Xavier the Benevolent of Westchester. Knight Grey the Clever of Westchester. Knight Summers the Steadfast of Westchester. Knight Munoz the Brave of Westchester. Knight Quested the Fast of Genosha.” The messenger continues on, listing several other names from Kruvia. “King Shaw requests the presence of the individuals named tomorrow, midday, at his tent. You will be escorted from the border and back safely.” The messenger looks up from the scroll. “Does the Southern army wish to take a message back?”   
  
“Message received,” Jean says, before turning her horse around. “Fall back,” she commands the troops. “Fall back and set up camp.”   
  
“Those are the strongest Knights in charge,” Erik says to Jean as they ride back. “If you send them all, it’s more than likely Shaw will overpower our troops while we are away.”   
  
Jean does not verbally reply but her eyebrows burrow.   
  
They ride back into camp and pass the message onto Charles, who has arranged for the Knights of each kingdom to convalesce in his tent.   
  
“It’s a trap,” Jean declares. “We can’t all go -- we’d leave the camp undefended and without leadership.”   
  
“I agree,” Erik steps forward. “I don’t think you should go at all.”   
  
“At least one from each kingdom should go,” Charles muses, “This is a chance for negotiation, and treaty-making. We haven’t had a chance to speak to the North in years.”   
  
“We haven’t had a _safe_ chance in years,” Alexander interjects. “And this is no safer.”   
  
“We don’t know who or what is waiting for us over there,” Armando agrees. “They ambushed us two days from the border -- imagine what they’ll do when we cross it.”   
  
“I’m not sending any of my troops over that border,” a knight from Kruvia says. “Because they trust me to ensure their safety. Our safety.” She shakes her head. “That safety is not guaranteed over there, at all. For any of us.”   
  
“If Westchester wishes to send an envoy, it’ll be on their heads,” Knight Quested speaks for the first time, “I won’t be travelling across the border.”   
  
The Kruvian knight nods her agreement. “Nor will I.”   
  
“Very well,” Charles says. “Thank you for your time, knights, you are dismissed.”   
  
The Kruvians, Rosberghans, and Genoshans begin heading out. Charles calls one back. “Lehnsherr,” he says, “Stay.”   
  
“You have an idea,” Jean says, turning on Charles the minute the others leave.   
  
“A bad idea,” Armando agrees.   
  
“You can’t trust Shaw,” Erik says.   
  
“We’re not trusting Shaw,” Charles says with a glint in his eyes, “I have a plan. Listen closely…”


	5. five

In the villages of Westchester, as the sun begins to rise, so do the people: to hang out clothes to dry in the sun, to finish weeding crops, to take goods out into the market to sell. The children skirt around and do their chores, but as soon as they finish, take off to the yellowing grass in the wide plains. Some children make dolls out of drying straw. Others catch crickets with their bare hands, and pit their specimens against each other, watching the insects fight. And others still chase each other in the grass, hollering and whooping all the while.   
  
As the sun sets, in the stone castle of Westchester, Princess Raven’s bedroom has been vacated. Two floor belows, the old guard Logan’s room is not.   
  
“Just take all the time you need getting yourself right, Logan. And maybe in a bit, you might have something new to say on the marriage?” Raven tries.   
  
“God,” Logan groans, “How old was that last venison?”   
  
“Logan?” Raven peers over where the old guard is curled up on his bed. “So I’ll tell them the tourney’s off then?”   
  
On the far side of the room, the fire crackles ominously.   
  
Logan groans, though it sounds closer to a growl. “Logan?” He tumbles off his bed artfully, cocooned in his sheets.   
  
Raven frowns. “Logan?”   
  
The lump underneath the sheets rocks and rumbles before rising. The sheets slide off to reveal sleek fur, and an elongated jaw --   
  
“Wolf,” Raven gasps. “Wolf.”   
  
Thick hair sprouts visibly on Logan’s hands, face, and chest. The room fills with a terrible growl as his head lengthens: he bares his teeth and the incisors elongate by the second. His hands curl into paws.   
  
“You’re a wolf, a beast -- I -- ”   
  
Logan swings his massive head towards Raven. “I didn’t mean to,” she protests, “That witch -- she gave me a messed up spell -- it’s not my fault!”   
  
Logan narrows his eyes, unable to speak with the incisors curling over his lip.   
  
“I just wanted her to change… you.” Raven’s eyes widen in realization.   
  
Down the hall, the Duke of Genosha, the Earl of Kruvia, and the Viscount of Rosbergh argue with the acting Regent of Westchester. They’re all sitting at the long dining table, over a supper of quail and roast vegetables.   
  
“The border skirmishes do not matter,” the Earl of Kruvia exclaims, waving his fork in the air. “My people want an answer!”   
  
“And,” Duke Azazel cuts in smoothly, “I doubt it’d be ideal to have the Omega without a mate for long.” He pops a carrot into his mouth.   
  
“He is right,” the Viscount nods, “And we’ve waited long enough, anyway. When shall the princess make her decision?”   
  
Lord Regent Marko waves them away. “All of the tournament competitors are away. At war! None of the Alphas are here, so it doesn’t matter -- she cannot make a decision.” The Acting Regent would like to hold onto power for as long as possible.   
  
“Nonsense!” the Earl cries out, “She’s seen them all!” As an afterthought, the Earl adds, “And I might say that my son -- ”   
  
“Enough!” Marko cuts through them. “I’ll not stand for -- ” he breaks off, turning his head. “Did you hear that?”   
  
The Viscount of Rosbergh swills his beer. Exasperated, he asks, “Hear what?”   
  
“Shh,” Marko says. He stands and takes his cane. “Something’s not right.”   
  
A few rooms away, Raven pulls on her hunting cloak, which is dark and warm, perfect for blending in on a cold night. “Come on,” she says to Logan, who’s down on all fours, his fluffy tail twitching. “We’ll just get through the castle, back to the witch, and she’ll put you back the way you should be.”   
  
“Everybody,” Marko hisses in the dining room, “Follow me.”   
  
“Oh, here we go,” the Viscount rolls his eyes. “Another hunt through the castle.”   
  
“We haven’t even had dessert yet!”   
  
“My liege, just what exactly are we after?”   
  
“Quiet!” Marko snaps, leaning heavily on his cane with one hand and pulling out his sword in the other.   
  
Maudie, a quiet maid, is finishing up her washing on the first floor when she walks by the old guard’s open door and shrieks a cry of horror.   
  
“What was that?” the Duke says, standing up and pushing his chair away.   
  
“Best we humor him,” the Earl tells Azazel, “He’s been a bit paranoid ever since -- ”   
  
The maid bursts into the dining room, panting, cheeks ruddy and hair disheveled.   
  
“Maudie,” Marko groans, “Just breathe -- breathe, girl, what is it?”   
  
“Oh,” she cries out, “A beast, my Lord -- a terrible beast with big eyes and fangs and -- _oh_ ,” she collapses.   
  
“I knew it,” Lord Marko yells, limping out of the room as fast as possible, “Grab your swords, gentlemen, we’re going on a hunt!”   
  
You can take a breath now, Reader. Fortunately, our Raven is rather clever, and Logan adapts to the situation rather well: they rush out the back of the cellar, Marko and the rest of the Earls and Dukes running through the castle chasing after them long after they’ve gone. We’ll come back to them in a minute.   
  
  
  
A week’s worth of traveling away, the Southern troops settle in at their campsites. The whores, tired, head back to their village, and in their absence, the troops find other means to entertain themselves:   
  
Some sit in front of the fire and tell stories of giant dragons and faraway treasures; others whittle and carve; some drink and eat; some play music and laugh and dance. Some of them, many years ago, when they were children, used to catch crickets and pit them against each other, to see which one would win. Now, they breed dogs and watch them fight. Later, they themselves will fight, bred and raised in a land which demands they do so.   
  
And others still will remain in their tents, bunkering down for the night. Prince Xavier and Knight Lehnsherr are among the latter.   
  
They’ve arranged themselves in Erik’s tent tonight -- Charles has let Arthur enjoy the night off -- with the candlelight low and their voices lower. In between them rests a board of chess, as usual.   
  
“How did you get that?” Erik asks. In the warmth of the tent, Charles has pushed his sleeves up, revealing a thin, shiny scar right under his left elbow.   
  
Charles lifts his arm to examine said scar. “This?” he chuckles. “Well, I love wandering the woods, as you know.” Erik nods, turning a white chess piece over in his hand. “I take Cadoc and ride there often. It isn’t so far, as you know, from the castle. No more than half a day’s trip, so I spent much of my childhood there.   
  
“As it happens, I became very interested in the wildlife in the area. Some of the other boys in the village used to catch crickets and beetles and race them or fight them.” Charles shakes his head amusedly. “Not me. I’d pick them up and examine them. Kept journals of them.”   
  
“Like a catalog?”   
  
Charles rubs his chin. “Not unlike a catalog,” he agrees. “I’d draw them, write down what they looked like -- their color, their noises, the way they’d crawl. And then I’d let them go.   
  
“After a few years, I moved on from bugs and beetles to small rodents or snakes and birds. Whatever I happened upon, I’d keep note of it. On many an afternoon I’d wait by the stream we met at, for things to come and feed on the fish and moss. Then one particular day, I saw a large butterfly -- about as large as your hand -- flying, and I thought to myself, ‘I must have this one!’ So I followed it down the stream, not with a care about where I was going. I stumbled upon a large root and scratched myself on a branch going down.” Charles runs a finger over his scar, reminiscing. “Never happened again.”   
  
Erik prods one of his chess pieces forward. Charles wants to ask about one of Erik’s scars, but decides that it’d be best to leave the topic be, for the moment. “Am I one of your creatures?” Erik asks, a few moves later. “Something to be poked and prodded and examined?”   
  
A genuine laugh bubbles from Charles’ throat. “It isn’t my fault you’re so interesting, my friend.”   
  
They finish playing after a few rounds, and Charles takes Erik’s black king suspiciously. “I have a feeling that you lost only because you wanted to,” Charles notes.   
  
Shrugging, Erik leans back. “To the victor go the spoils.”   
  
Charles’ stomach tightens. “Your tent -- the entrance -- ”   
  
Erik’s eyes darken and a current of lusty pheromones has taken to circulating the room. “I added a metal latch. No one can come in unless I open it.”   
  
“On the bed,” Charles says.   
  
Erik goes and sits on the cot. “How are we doing this?”   
  
“How do you think, Knight?” Charles walks up close and, unable to help himself, curls his fingers into Erik’s hair. Charles lets Erik reach out tentatively and put his hands on either side of Charles’ hips.   
  
“Your way? Me -- on my knees,” Erik guesses, looking up. He tilts his head to the side, the way a predator might. “Your cock. In my mouth.” His voice is clinical. “Hard, fast. Quiet.”   
  
Charles tightens his fingers in Erik’s hair, tight enough that his knuckles turn white. It must hurt for Erik -- it hurts even Charles’ fingers -- but Erik shows nothing. A damp spot stains the front of Charles’ pants; the smell of precome is faint but noticeable in the air. Erik’s Adam’s apple bobs as he parts his lips, to better scent the air.   
  
Charles forces himself to take a few calming breaths. “And your way?” he asks slowly, evenly.   
  
The only warning Charles gets is a slight tightening of Erik’s hands on his hips. Other than that, Erik is stoic up until the moment he lifts Charles up and twists, dropping him onto the bed. Erik follows and pins his hands on Charles’ shoulders. They come nose to nose, close enough for Charles to see the black flecks in Erik’s blue-green-gray eyes. Erik’s weight is warm and solid over Charles’ body.   
  
“My way, Charles?” Erik purrs low into Charles’ ear. “I’d have you on this cot -- you, underneath me, like this. Panting, whining.” With each word, Erik rolls his hips slowly, the thick line of his hardness pressing into Charles’ hip. “I’d open you up. My cock, between your legs. Inside you.” Erik leans in, his open mouth against Charles’ neck. “Has anyone ever been inside of you, Your Highness? Has anyone ever fucked you, princeling?” Charles’ shiver is answer enough.   
  
Charles shoves Erik off. “On your knees,” Charles says, his jaw tight and his eyes steely with determination. “We do this my way.”   
  
Erik slides to his knees in front of the cot. “Of course, sire,” says he, honey smooth and sweet.   
  
Charles snarls and grabs Erik’s hair, pulls him close so that his nose bumps against the bulge of Charles’ cock. “You wanted this,” Charles hisses quietly, “You wanted -- ” he breaks off with a choke when Erik, tongue wet and hot, mouths at Charles’ cock through his trousers.   
  
Drunk on the cocktail of salt and pine and Erik in the air, Charles shoves clumsily at his belt, pushing down and rocking forward until his cock slips into Erik’s wet mouth.   
  
Charles fucks Erik’s mouth, fast and feverishly, as though the faster he comes, the faster Erik will leave from his thoughts, his blood stream.   
  
Erik gurgles once but doesn’t relent even when Charles thrusts so hard Erik’s nose hits the thatch of hair at the base of Charles’ cock. He comes soon after that, hands still clutching Erik’s head, hips quivering.   
  
“I can’t,” Charles pants, “I can’t be so -- so _obsessed_ with you.”   
  
Erik’s lips are swollen and his hair is rumpled. His hand falls from his lap, revealing a dark stain there, from where he’d rubbed himself off in his pants. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse: “Would it help, knowing the feeling is mutual?”   
  
“Oh Christ,” Charles pants, leaning in, “I think that makes it worse.”   
  
Eventually, Charles finds enough energy deep within him to rise and clothe himself before returning to his tent. As the metal latch of Erik’s tent undoes himself and as Charles slips out, from across the campfire, Jean Grey watches with interest.   
  
Next morning, Charles wakes early. He pulls on the plain trousers and worn shirt that Arthur has left for him, then a plain leather doublet over that. When he pushes out of his tent, the campfire is already smoking: Armando and Alexander are finishing breakfast, Erik’s sharpening his sword, and Jean’s spread out their map in the sunlight.   
  
“Sir,” Jean says, looking up.   
  
“What do you have for me?” Charles asks.   
  
“I’ve mapped the fastest way back to Westchester, assuming that we’re returning tonight.”   
  
Charles nods. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t be.”   
  
“We’ll snake back the same way we came, but instead of this way, through the plains, I think it’d be best to stick close to the forest. That way we won’t be ambushed, like last time.”   
  
Charles squints at the map. “And estimated length of travel?”   
  
“Eight days, sir. A little longer than it took getting here, but we’ll be safe. We have enough rations to make it back in nine.”   
  
“Good. Take this to the other regiments, make sure they plot the same course.” Charles turns. “Armando, Alexander,” he beckons them over. “Pack up the footmen and the cavalry, but have a line of archers ready at the border. Some knights too, if you can spare them. Make sure that Shaw sees we’re prepared for anything he tries.”   
  
“Sir,” they nod.   
  
Charles heads over to Erik. Arthur scuttles by and brings Charles some bread, cheese, and half a boiled potato.   
  
“Morning,” Charles says, sitting down.   
  
“The telepath?” Erik says lowly, so low Charles can barely hear him.   
  
Charles glances over his shoulder: his advisors are walking away. “I couldn’t sense her. No one under her influence either. I’m assuming she isn’t there.”   
  
Erik puts his sword down. “You won’t be able to read Shaw’s thoughts either. He has a helmet he uses, similar to my amulet. You can’t get past it.” Erik touches the metal chain around his neck.   
  
Charles nods solemnly.   
  
“Just remember what I said,” Erik says. “Do not engage. Shaw will defeat you.” Erik takes a piece of Charles’ cheese. “And me, for that matter.”   
  
Charles eyes him curiously. “You know that for a fact?”   
  
Erik bares his teeth when he smiles. “I do.”   
  
“You haven’t fought him with me, yet.”   
  
Erik shakes his head. “Nor do I intend to. Not today. Not on his ground.”   
  
Charles nods. “Finish up. We’ll head out soon.”   
  
Before the sun reaches its zenith, more than half of the Southern army has collapsed their tents. But a red line of archers stands ready at the border, along with several knights.   
  
Erik has donned his decorated doublet, fit with a ruffled shirt and black trousers. He secures his amulet around his neck and whistles for his steed. Across his back he has strapped his shield, and from his hip hangs his sword. Charles walks beside him on foot, a mid-sized dagger on his belt and another knife in his boot.   
  
“Good luck,” Jean murmurs, as the messenger approaches.   
  
Charles smiles at her, then turns to face the messenger.   
  
“Knight Lehnsherr,” the messenger says as she approaches on foot. The messenger blinks in surprise. “I -- will you be the only envoy today?”   
  
“No one else,” Erik says tersely.   
  
The messenger visibly hesitates for a moment. “This way,” she says finally, turning away and heading past the border. Erik turns to glance at Charles, then the two push forward. Erik holds his horse’s reins in hand as they walk.   
  
“Shaw will meet you in his tent today,” the messenger says, clearly rehearsing lines. “He’s traveled a long way from the castle to meet with you.”   
  
“He seemed certain that we would come,” Erik says.   
  
The messenger glances back, then pushes on. The messenger flag that she carries hangs limply in the still air.   
  
They weave through the rocky outcrop for a little longer. They begin to see soldiers, dressed in silver and black, sitting around camps. Charles ducks his head and follows silently.   
  
In the midst of the Northern army’s camp, a tall black tent rises out of the grass and dirt, decorated with silver tassels and flags. “Here,” the messenger says. She opens the flap and they follow her inside.   
  
Unlike the inside of a royal Westchester tent, the royal tents of the North are heavily decorated, and nearly twice the size of a Westchester tent. The inner fabric of the tent is just as opulent as the outside, ornamented with silver veins and fleur-de-lises. There are polished wood tables, velvet chaise lounges, and the smell of sweet sherry fills the air.   
  
“Erik,” calls a warm voice from the other side of the tent. Erik and Charles follow the messenger towards its source. “I didn’t expect to see you. Where’s Janos?”   
  
As they come closer, a middle-aged man sits on an adorned throne. His silver brocade cloak is thrown carelessly over one shoulder, pooling next to his black boots.   
  
“Your Majesty,” the messenger bows, “Knight Erik Lehnsherr the Loyal of Genosha has arrived to speak with you.”   
  
“Knight Lehnsherr,” the man -- King Shaw -- says, rolling the name in his mouth. To the king’s left and right, a collection of nobles stand, watching silently. “I do believe I called for Knight Quested. As well as the Prince of Westchester, and his knights. And where is Rosbergh? I could’ve sworn I saw their colors.” The king speaks casually, but his gaze is heavy. “All I get is a single Knight and his squire.”   
  
The messenger hurries out of the way.   
  
“How are you, Erik? Step closer, let me look at you.”   
  
Erik takes a step forward. “I expected a private audience.”   
  
Shaw throws his head back and laughs. Light refracts off his metal helmet. “Of course, of course,” Shaw says smoothly. “Gentlemen, ladies -- if you don’t mind?”   
  
They murmur but begin filing out of the tent. When the last one exits, Shaw turns his attention back on Erik.   
  
“Now,” Shaw says, “Tell me Erik. How have you been?”   
  
“Why did you want us to come here?”   
  
Shaw tsks. “Erik, Erik, Erik. Still as insolent as the day you left me, my boy.” Shaw stands and steps closer. Erik takes a step back. “Don’t touch me.”   
  
“Now,” Shaw frowns, “Is that how you treat me? Are you too good for me now, Erik?”   
  
“Why did you bring us here?” Erik hisses, and puts a hand on his sword.   
  
“Erik,” Shaw spreads his hands in imitation of a benevolent gesture, “I couldn’t help it. My men said they saw you in their ambush. And I knew if I didn’t ask you to come, then you would. Here we are.” Shaw shrugs nonchalantly.   
  
Erik turns suddenly.   
  
A young squire sticks his head into the tent. “Your Majesty?”   
  
“Get out,” Shaw snaps, displeasure tightening his face, “I’m busy.”   
  
“Your Majesty, I’m sorry -- it’s just -- Lord Stryker needs you.”   
  
“I am preoccupied,” Shaw snarls.   
  
“Your Majesty,” the squire says, face pink, “I can’t -- I can’t leave without you, Stryker demands -- ”   
  
Shaw turns an eye on Knight Lehnsherr and Charles. “I’ll be only a moment,” he says, before sweeping out of the tent.   
  
“Erik,” Charles steps close, grabbing the Knight’s wrist, “I’m going to talk to him myself.”   
  
“No,” Erik hisses, “You can’t -- I told you -- ”   
  
“We won’t get anything out of him otherwise! He wanted to see me -- ”   
  
“He’ll ask me whatever he wants to ask you, I assure you!”   
  
“But at what cost? In how long? Every extra minute we stay here, is another threat to the Southern kingdoms -- isn’t that what you told me?”   
  
“Get back,” Erik mutters.   
  
Charles quickly steps away and ducks his head again, just as the tent flap opens and Shaw reenters.   
  
“That man,” Shaw says to the tent at large, “Is incompetent.” Shaw strides close to Erik. “That could’ve been you, Erik. I could’ve made you a Lord. But you left me.”   
  
Erik grits his teeth. “Why did you want to meet with the Southern army?”   
  
Shaw tuts. “Are you asking questions, or am I?”   
  
“Shaw.” Charles steps forward, back straight and shoulders square.   
  
Shaw steps away from Erik. “What’s this?” he glances between what he thought was a squire and Knight Lehnsherr. “Erik, who -- ”   
  
“You don’t recognize me, sire?” Charles asks. “I suppose it’s been many years since we’ve met, but still…”   
  
Shaw narrows his eyes. “It can’t be… the Xavier Prince?”   
  
“Answer the question, Your Majesty, and perhaps, I’ll answer some that you may have for me.”   
  
“Prince Charles,” Shaw says disbelievingly. “Well, whatever are you doing? Parading as a squire into a Northern army camp?” Shaw walks around Charles. “You ought to be more careful, really -- pretty thing like you, might mistake you for -- ”   
  
“Your Majesty,” Charles says, voice clipped, “Why did you initiate a border skirmish with the Southern army, only to retreat five days later and call for an audience with representatives from all Southern kingdoms?”   
  
“It really is you,” Shaw raises an eyebrow. “You have no idea -- what would you say if I decided to keep you here, just you and your good knight? Surely you realize I can easily overpower you here.”   
  
“At what cost?” Charles counters. “If you take me here, Westchester will send her entire army up within half a fortnight. Genosha and Kruvia would soon follow. You don’t want all-out war, especially with three kingdoms.”   
  
“Hmm,” muses Shaw. “No, I’d rather not. However, I _would_ like to know one thing: why were my Alphas and I not invited to compete for the Xavier Omega’s hand? We do feel rather left out.”   
  
Charles frowns. “Surely you jest.”   
  
“I assure you,” Shaw smiles with teeth but without humor, “If I were jesting, you would know.”   
  
“You can’t possibly think that Westchester would have you compete in our tournament, much less join a treaty agreement with us.”   
  
“Oh yes, the Southern treaty.” Shaw sighs. “Say,” his smile turns sly, “Who is the Alpha I must congratulate?”   
  
”Beg your pardon?”   
  
“The good Alpha that dear Raven has chosen -- who might that be?”   
  
“The tournament has yet to be completed,” Charles says coolly, “As we were interrupted by a border skirmish, and were called to investigate.”   
  
Shaw waves a hand. “A border skirmish -- you needn’t worry, dear Charles. I wouldn’t have done anything serious.”   
  
“Of course, sire,” Charles says, dry as dust.   
  
“Though it does concern me,” Shaw taps his chin, “That the acting Lord Regent of Westchester decided it fit to send the prince on border patrol. Rather careful, isn’t he? But no matter, I’m glad he sent you.”   
  
“Call off the army, Shaw,” Erik breaks in finally. “There’s nothing more we need to discuss here.”   
  
”You know what?” Shaw says, “I think I will. The fighting is rather boring, isn’t it. Charles -- do finish your explanation -- why exactly wasn’t the North invited to partake in this… peace treaty you’ve put together?”   
  
Charles steps forward, his expression dark. “Because we attempted such a treaty more than a decade ago, and you turned your back on us -- as well as your people.”   
  
“Erik could’ve told you that,” Shaw replies easily, “I want to know why -- if your Raven is having such a hard time finding a suitable mate -- why you would turn away potential Alphas from the North? It would do you well to have some new blood in that dusty castle,” he jeers.   
  
Charles blinks. “Are we quite finished?”   
  
“Never,” Shaw turns, his cloak sweeping the floor behind him. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”   
  
  
  
As Charles and Erik attempt to navigate their way out of dinner with Shaw, Lord Marko sits down to his.   
  
“This is unacceptable!” he growls at his plate.   
  
“Actually,” the Earl of Kruvia pipes in, “‘tis chicken.”   
  
“With mash,” adds the Viscount helpfully. From his seat to Marko’s right, the Duke gleefully digs into his own chicken and mash.   
  
“Maudie said she saw the damned beast,” Marko snarls. “It’s been long enough -- that mangy thing’s been crawling through my woods, stealing from my people -- ”   
  
“Maybe she was mistaken,” Duke Azazel says, “I hear you speak oft of the beast.”   
  
“Aye,” the Earl nods, “Maybe, you finally got it into her head, and when she saw a drooping dog -- thought it was th’ beast!”   
  
Lord Marko gnashes his teeth. “Are you calling my people mad?”   
  
“My Lord,” the Viscount of Rosbergh chimes in,”Perhaps we should all go for a stroll. Bit of fresh air ought to do some good.”   
  
“Enough!” Lord Marko says, slamming his knife down. “Call in the hunting dogs!” he storms out of the dining room. “Gather the young boys from the village,” his voice echoes. “We’ll soon find this hellish creature and you’ll all see then with your own eyes that it’s real enough!”   
  
“Absolutely mad.”   
  
“Off his rocker.”   
  
Duke Azazel tucks into his dinner and finishes his wine with a faint smile.   
  
In the deep, dark forests a little ways away, Logan and Raven leap through the woods.   
  
‘Tis a lucky thing indeed, that both Raven and Logan have spent much time in these woods: many a day has Logan brought both the princess and the prince here, and many more have the Xavier siblings spent in this wilderness.   
  
Their knowledge of the forest now kicks in as they make their way through the undergrowth. Logan trots along in his new form and Raven shifts into her blue scaly self. Adrenaline pumps in their veins and they know Lord Marko and his men are far behind. Raven lets out a whoop as she strides over a fallen tree: this is the first time she’s been in the forest for a long, long time.   
  
Before long, they lose the trail; Raven follows Logan through the darkness, her yellow eyes large, absorbing every scrap of moonlight. “Where are we headed?” she calls out, not expecting an answer.   
  
She doesn’t receive one, but doesn’t particularly mind: her duties as princess have been so overwhelming for the past year, it’s hard to remember a time she was as free as this since then.   
  
They slow as they reach the mouth of the stream. Water cascades from a shallow rivulet overhead, from a large rock slick with moss jutting over them.   
  
“I understand,” Raven says, finding a seat on a nearby stone. She watches as Logan’s wolf form lap at the pool of water. “I understand that I need to marry one of them, but -- it’s not _fair._ ” She twists her hands. “I have to marry, I have to go through _suitors_ and find a mate -- all because of something I can’t help.” Yellow feline eyes meet brown canine ones as Logan swings his enormous skull around. “I know, I know.” Raven stands and wipes the dirt and moss from her. “Come on, let’s find somewhere to stay for the night.”   



	6. six

Darkness and silence -- imagine this for a moment, Reader.  
  
If you don’t happen to live in the countryside, then you most likely live in a world of noise: rumbling cars, buzzing machines, conversing voices. If you find a place so silent and still and dark as where Raven and Logan are now, then perhaps you’ve found this: an untouched, untamed wilderness; a land where our ancestors -- yours and mine -- might’ve once lived.  
  
This is how Raven wakes the morning after she’s run from the castle with Logan. The cave blocks off almost all sunlight, so she’s nearly blinded by the brightness of it when she steps outside. They found it last night in the moonlight, and slept there.  
  
Today, the plants and trees around her are iridescent green, and the purling of the creek rises up to greet her. Everything is clean and beautiful.  
  
In the distance, mountains rise out of the horizon, almost larger than life. Raven feels tiny in comparison -- both because the size of them dwarfs her, but also because she can’t even begin to imagine their history and old age.  
  
A loud grunt from inside the cave signals Logan’s awakening.  
  
Raven shakes herself out of her reverie and heads down to the mouth of the stream to wash up for the morning.  
  
Logan looks even more enormous in the sunlight, but his fur is soft and gray. Raven reaches out to touch. Logan sneezes.  
  
“Look!” Raven jumps back, splashing water over the both of them. Our princess has just spotted silvery fish darting through the stream. “Fish!”  
  
Logan huffs and steps forward, snapping his huge maw open and shut. He delicately steps into the cold stream and hovers his snout over the water.  
  
She frowns at him. “That’s no way to do it. Look.” She puts her hands underwater first, so that the water’s refraction won’t affect her vision.  
  
Soon enough, they catch enough fish for the both of them to share. Raven laughs and begins collecting small twigs to start a fire. A pile of these small twigs she makes next to a pile of moderate sticks next to a pile of branches. “Start small,” she tells Logan, who huffs in approval.  
  
Smoke curls into the air as the small twigs catch light. Soon after that, the princess tosses on the sticks, and then the branches. A small fire starts, and Raven turns three of the branches to create a spit of sorts: she finds two branches that split into two at the top, forming what you and I know to be a Y in the English alphabet. These two branches she puts into the earth on either side of the flame. The last branch is thinner, and she skewers two silver fish onto it, then places the branch onto the other two, turning it around to cook.  
  
They get through about a dozen of the silver fish before deciding to push on.  
  
Raven leads the way this time, meandering through the woods. Under her scaly blue feet, the moss and leaves are damp but soft.  
  
Around midday, they’ve lost the stream to the tangle of woods. Raven and Logan walk side by side. “It’s just,” Raven says, “I love this.” She holds a stick in her hand, tracing it along the tops of waxy leaves and across bark. “I miss being able to wander through the woods without a care for studies or suitors.”  
  
Logan sniffs.  
  
“Right. It’s adulthood. We all have duties. Responsibilities.” She’s heard this from Logan many times.  
  
Raven’s still mumbling about maturity when Logan halts suddenly. He growls.  
  
“What is it?” Her eyes widen. “Will-o'-wisp.”  
  
  
  
Prince Charles and Knight Lehnsherr narrowly avoid confrontation with King Shaw as they leave the Northern army’s camp.  
  
You see, the black King -- so aptly named is Sebastian Shaw -- has the cunning of a viper and the slick, silky smooth drawl of a bee’s honey. He tried to draw in our Prince and our Knight, but Erik Lehnsherr knows the King’s ways all too well.  
  
Shaw sends them off with a thinly concealed snarl and a single horse:  
  
“You wouldn’t want to keep the Prince of Westchester, would you, Your Majesty? Not with the Southern armies so close, and your reinforcements so far?” Charles had said. He inwardly thanked Kurt Marko for the numerous times he’d made Charles pore over Northern maps.  
  
“Very well,” Shaw had narrowed his eyes. “Do visit soon, Erik. It’s been too long.”  
  
Erik had sneered.  
  
When they exit the tent, night has overcome the land outside. All of the Northern troops have bunkered down for the night, leaving solitary torches and a few soldiers on watch.  
  
The prince mounts the horse and Knight Lehnsherr leads the steed out of the camp quickly.  
  
Charles grimaces once they leave the outskirts of the camp. Without a guide, the hike back across rocky outcropping takes longer. Overhead, the moon peers over their footsteps. A chill begins to set in.  
  
“He’s just as slippery as I remember,” Charles remarks, his breath condensing in the air.  
  
“As quick as a viper and as poisonous as one as well,” Erik says through gritted teeth.  
  
Wisely, Charles does not continue on that subject. In the tent, Erik’s anger and discomfort had been quite evident.  
  
But Erik continues. “I’m surprised you even let me come with you. To see Shaw.”  
  
“You know him best.”  
  
“You didn’t think that I would kill him, then?”  
  
The horse snorts softly, shaking its mane; Charles kicks his heels and it trots on. “I’ve no doubt about your pain. Nor your anger. I understand you want him dead. But I also understand that you’ve no desire to let harm come to your own. Killing Shaw there would’ve certainly meant my death, as well as all out war between the two armies here.”  
  
“You think I care, Charles?”  
  
Erik tights his grip on the horse’s reins. They sidestep a large boulder.  
  
“To some extent, since Shaw’s head is still attached to his shoulders at the moment, isn’t it?”  
  
As he pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the biting wind, Erik exhales. “You’re not a killer, Erik,” Charles says. “Not like Shaw.”  
  
“I will be, if there is any justice in this world.”  
  
Charles opens his mouth to speak but then cuts himself off. He looks down, at Erik, and notices the tremor in his fingers. The prince thinks to himself that it is a rather long ride back -- especially in the dark, without a messenger -- and that the night will only grow colder.  
  
“Get up here.”  
  
“Your Highness?” Erik glances up.  
  
“Get up here,” Charles says sharply, irritated. His feelings are always so quick to rise with Erik. “You’ll freeze to death.”  
  
Erik halts the horse with a quiet murmur; he has a way with the beasts, damn him for be so capable, thinks Charles. Our Prince Charles is quite capable with horses himself, but mostly just his own steed, Cadoc. But I digress.  
  
Erik swings up onto the horse, cloak rippling. With a grunt, he settles himself onto the saddle behind Charles. It’s a snug fit, just barely enough for the both of them. Charles ends up with the entirety of Erik’s front pressed up against his back. The heat trapped between their bodies dispels the night cold quickly.  
  
Charles clears his throat. He clicks his tongue.  
  
When the horse trots forward again, Charles immediately regrets his decision: every jolt presses Erik’s hips snug against the back of Charles’ waist; he thinks he can almost feel the soft bulge against his back.  
  
“This was your intention?” Erik murmurs lowly, his hands sliding onto Charles’ waist.  
  
“Do shut up, otherwise I’ll make you walk.”  
  
The night air is a blanket around them, silencing and indifferent. By the time their horse enters the forest beside the southern camps, neither of them are unaffected by their little jaunt.  
  
Charles stops the horse once the forest grows thick with undergrowth and shrubbery and trees. “The camp’s the opposite way,” Erik says.  
  
The prince slides off the horse, his jaw tight. Erik follows suit, albeit slower.  
  
Across damp moss and soil Charles paces. Erik leans against a nearby tree, adjusting his trousers.  
  
“Do you have anything to say?” Charles demands.  
  
Erik faces Charles. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”  
  
“Oh, gods,” Charles breathes out, shaking his head. “I thought… I thought you would be out of my system -- ”  
  
“What,” Erik says, “that you’d fuck me, my mouth, hard -- and fast, and that would make me a thing? A whore to be used? That that would me less -- ”  
  
“Stop,” Charles says sharply. “Stop, I can’t,” he gestures helplessly.  
  
The horse whinnies pitifully, pawing at the dirt. Erik tilts his head back. “Just,” he starts, his voice hoarse, “It doesn’t matter. Can I -- can you -- ”  
  
Charles’ face pinches. He strides towards Erik, grabs him by the collar of his hemp shirt. Charles presses his mouth against Erik’s, roughly, hard enough to draw blood. But Erik just groans lowly.  
  
For a moment, our prince is struck by the complete and utter control he has: he runs his hands into Erik’s hair, fingers tightening with relish; Erik simply tilts his chin up, head back. Charles wonders how much Erik trusts him, how much he could push. For the moment, Charles only knots his fingers into Erik’s hair and pushes their mouths together, hard.  
  
“How do you want me,” Erik rasps, pulling away. In the pale moonlight, both of their pupils are blown.  
  
“We can’t,” Charles protests, loosening his fingers from Erik’s hair. He steps back. “The knights -- they’re close, and they’re ready to move out.”  
  
“Of course,” replies Erik. He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair.  
  
Charles breathes heavily, sucking in the icy air. He walks to the horse and climbs on. Erik walks close on foot, leading the horse by its reins as they walk back.  
  
Prince Charles is correct; the camp is close, just on the edge of the forest. Armando is on watch tonight. He looks up and his nose twitches, but he looks away when Charles steadily meets his gaze.  
  
“Are the troops ready to move?” Charles asks. Erik halts the horse and Charles swings off.  
  
“Packed and awaiting your word, sire.”  
  
In the near darkness, a few lanterns are dispersed among the soldiers, few and far in between. Mostly, they use the moonlight to trudge through the forest. On their horses’ backs are either bodies, or piles of fabric for tents: in this blackness, it’s difficult to distinguish between the two.  
  
They mobilize quickly and head out.  
  
For another day they travel, moving as quickly as they can away from the border, without pause for food or rest, only for quick rests by small streams and rivers so as to refill their waterskins.  
  
Nearly twenty-four hours after they left their last encampment, Charles lets them settle down and set up camp. But after a week of travelling and five full days of fighting, most men simply roll out their blankets and hunker down in the roots of a large tree. The forest offers them protection, and a means of blending in. And without tents to collapse and roll up, the soldiers gain maneuverability, and speed.  
  
For the full day they’d been travelling, Knight Lehnsherr had been riding with the Genoshans. Now, his horse trots up to where Charles oversees the settling in of his soldiers.  
  
“Knight Lehnsherr,” Charles turns, his mouth curling into a small, pleased smile.  
  
“Princeling.”  
  
It’s chilly, and the winds move in quick, so Charles gestures for Erik to follow to the royal Westchester tent.  
  
“He’s watching us,” Erik says quietly. They dismount in front of the red tent and Arthur scuttles over to take the reins of their horses and lead them away.  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
They enter the tent, which is much warmer. For a moment, they become preoccupied with peeling off their wet cloaks and doublets.  
  
“Shaw.” Erik brushes rainwater from his cotton undershirt, and sinks into a chair. “He’s probably watching the troops at this very moment.”  
  
“We’re far away from the border.”  
  
Erik puts a hand on his chin. “He has his ways.”  
  
Charles finishes folding up his cloak, and tosses it onto his cot. He considers Erik for a moment. “Why did he let us go? He started a border skirmish, and fought for five days and five nights. He could’ve mobilized the people, prepared for war.”  
  
“He plays with his prey before he eats it. And he doesn’t want to waste the lives of those few with the special powers he desires.”  
  
“And he desires an army of them?”  
  
Bitterly, Erik says, “Whatever he wants, I refuse to be a part of it.”  
  
Charles sits in a chair across from Erik. “But you agree with him.”  
  
Silence. Then, “I don’t think that we should hide. If he hadn’t killed my parents, I would’ve readily served King Shaw.”  
  
“But he did.”  
  
“But he did,” echoes Erik, “And I am here, now.”  
  
Arthur ducks back into the tent and busies himself by pulling out two silver goblets and a bottle of wine.  
  
“Alcohol is heavy,” Erik notes, as Arthur pours them each a cup. “Strange for you to be carrying it.”  
  
“If you don’t want a goblet, simply tell Arthur, my friend.”  
  
“Quite the opposite.” Erik leans in and sips from his goblet. “Only, I wonder why a practical man such as yourself would carry something that seems more for pleasure than for practicality.”  
  
Charles raises an eyebrow. “And if I happen to hold audience with nobility we find? If a Lord of a nearby county requests a meeting? Am I to serve him water, and plain bread?” Charles reaches out for his own goblet. “No, I would not carry this if it were up to me. But, alas,” Charles lifts his shoulder in half a shrug.  
  
“Propriety, again.”  
  
“To our benefit, I’d argue. Since we’ve yet to stumble upon any Dukes or Duchesses, and I highly doubt that we will, the custom falls to our enjoyment.”  
  
Erik lifts his glass and they clink their goblets to that.  
  
As is usual with them, Charles and Erik pull out a chessboard, and begin playing.  
  
“Will you ever tell me what Shaw did,” Charles asks after a few rounds. He taps the table absentmindedly. Arthur, curiously, has disappeared to tend to the horses.  
  
“Don’t you already know?”  
  
Charles grimaces. “Not the details.”  
  
It’s a long while before Erik speaks slowly. When he does, his voice is tight:  
  
“The war, ten years ago, started when Shaw attacked Westchester.” Erik’s eyebrows furrow. “That is what the scribes say, and that is what the scrolls read. But the first kingdom that Shaw attacked was his own. He -- he made sure that we would fight for him, just lowly peasants in the village. Farmers, and blacksmiths. All of them. When he found out that I had -- the gifts, that I had, he had to keep me.”  
  
“Your parents,” Charles says for him. Erik adjusts the metal amulet hanging ‘round his neck. Charles continues, “And now you seek revenge?”  
  
“At the time, it seemed the best option for me was to lie low, and serve the black king. Rise up the ranks, and kill him from his side.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Tell me, Charles: is that so terrible? Does that make me a monster to right what was wrong?”  
  
“Duke Azazel, and Knight Quested -- they were with you, weren’t they? When you fought for the North.”  
  
“We fought for them up until the moment we escaped,” Erik says. He leans back in his chair. “We fought until we had an opportunity to leave, then we did. And all the better for it: Azazel has found a sympathetic ear and now he holds the status of a Duke.”  
  
“Is he trustworthy?”  
  
Erik hesitates. “He won’t go back to Shaw, if that is what you ask.”  
  
Charles sips his wine. “And Shaw wants these gifted persons.”  
  
“He wants their power. If he found out that you, or Raven -- ” Erik breaks off uncharacteristically.  
  
Troubled, Prince Charles leans back. “I saw a man there, in the king’s court. He wore robes unlike the others. Did you see him?”  
  
“Yes, a man from Yo’avit.”  
  
“Shaw was the one who sent you there, was he not?”  
  
Erik agrees, “He was.”  
  
Charles presses two fingers against his temple and inhales shallowly. “And what, pray tell, were you doing in Yo’avit? To be more precise, what were you trading for?”  
  
“People.” Erik’s eyes glint darkly in the candlelight. “King Shaw wanted to purchase the gifted, and bring them to his lands. I was young, and not in his trust then. I knew I had to earn it. I knew I had to have my revenge.”  
  
“You wanted to work your way up the ranks,” Charles frowns, confused, “But you left him.”  
  
“He found out.” Erik’s mouth twists. “During that same trip where he sent me to Yo’avit, he had me request for him a particular helmet, from their blacksmiths. It was made of a strange alloy that could stop any gifted persons from reading his mind. When I found out, I had one made for myself, though less conspicuous.” Erik gestures at the metal amulet he wears.  
  
“Though no less ugly,” Charles says.  
  
Erik ignores him. “When I returned to Shaw, another Alpha -- Duchess Emma Frost of one of the most northern counties -- had the ability to read minds. Janos, Azazel, and I could only evade her for so long, with only one amulet between the three of us -- that was all our pooled fortune could buy. So we left soon afterwards.”  
  
Charles finishes his goblet of wine. There are many questions that our Prince wishes to ask, but he does not want Erik to close off. Slowly, he tells himself.  
  
After a few moments, Erik captures Charles’ king. “Shall we go for a walk?” Charles asks lightly.  
  
Erik’s eyes flick over Charles, and the prince fights to keep still. “As you wish,” Erik eventually says.  
  
They exit the tent into the dead of night. Nearly all the other soldiers have fallen asleep, exhausted from their trip, save for the few Alphas on watch. Charles acknowledge those as he heads deeper into the forest, with Erik following close behind.  
  
Though these two Alphas are not immune to the work of war, at the moment, adrenaline rushes through their veins; their traitorous hearts pump faint pheromones in the air, in an intoxicating feedback loop. Neither of them trusts themselves to speak.  
  
A good distance away from the outer edges of the army’s bivouacs, Charles reaches out and wraps three fingers around Erik’s wrist, tugging him deeper into the woods. They only pace for what seems like a heartbeat before they stumble into a small clearing.  
  
“You knew this was here,” Erik murmurs. In response, Charles’ lips quirk and he tugs Erik close, licks his way into Erik’s mouth.  
  
The taste, the touch of the other is intoxicating to each. Charles’ hands fist into Erik’s shirt as Erik crowds him against a tree. Deliriously, Charles can’t help but appreciate the stretch of Erik’s height -- perhaps the length of a finger or two more than Charles’ own -- and the deep, pungent scent of him.  
  
“Like this?” Erik murmurs, his breath warm against Charles’ bare neck.  
  
Charles shivers. Erik apparently takes this as assent, because he slips his strong thigh between Charles’ legs; Charles’ eyes are half-lidded as he feels the enormous bulge there, pressing into his hip. Erik’s hands, wide and calloused, run down the length of Charles’ spine and press at the swell of his arse.  
  
With a jerk, Charles pulls back when two of Erik’s fingers follow the line of his spine, down underneath the waistband of his trousers, stroking at the cleft there.  
  
Charles pushes Erik forward. Their eyes meet, challenging. “Turn around,” Charles commands. Though outwardly, Charles remains austere, he does not expect Erik to comply.  
  
Erik’s gaze drags up and down Charles’ body, not unlike the first time they met, what seems like lifetimes ago, by the stream in Westchester. His possessive eyes pause at the material bunched up behind the placket of Charles’ trousers.  
  
Erik turns around with the reluctance of a warrior facing a line of archers.  
  
With his foot, Charles nudges the back of Erik’s knee. With his hand, he presses against Erik’s shoulders, until Erik slowly bends over.  
  
Rough hands find a fallen log, old but solid, even under the weight of Erik’s chest.  
  
“Like this,” Charles says, roughly. Erik’s knees hit the damp forest floor; there will be dark stains on his trousers by the time they leave this clearing.  
  
Erik grunts when Charles yanks down Erik’s trousers, exposing him to the night. Charles’ hand reaches into his pocket for a glass vial of oil; his fingers come back slick and press between Erik’s thighs, smearing the slippery substance there.  
  
“I’m not going to have you,” Charles murmurs, draping himself over Erik’s back. “Not tonight, but we’ll do it like this.” Erik’s head hangs as Charles’ length slips between Erik’s slick thighs.  
  
Skin saws against skin as Charles’ thrusts accelerate; he ruts against Erik roughly, his face twisted. Erik’s body rests firmly on the trunk, hands in the dirt in front of him, as he rocks back against Charles.  
  
Charles grips Erik’s hair, pulling his head back so he can press his mouth against Erik’s ear, so that Erik hears each hoarse breath -- _uh, uh, uh._ _  
_ _  
_ Charles groans once, twice; then his hips stutter, and he slumps, boneless, against Erik’s prone body. After a second of heavy breathing, Charles fumbles his hands into Erik’s trousers, almost as an afterthought; he works Erik like that until mud squelches in between Erik’s fingers as his grip on the earth tightens.  
  
Then Erik’s fist releases, like an exhale.  
  
When Charles catches his breath and speaks, he half-sounds in awe. “You let me -- ” he trails off.  
  
Erik grunts and flexes his lower back.  
  
Charles stands, then tugs at Erik to help him up as well.  
  
Erik wipes his hands on his trousers, uncaring of the marks already there. He does up his buttons and Charles does the same.  
  
“I’m patient,” Erik says. He looks at Charles. He tilts his head.  
  
“Patient for?” Charles pants. He’s grateful for that fact that it’s dark, so that the knight may not see his red cheeks.  
  
“Whatever I want.”  
  
  
  
Far across the country, in the heart of Westchester, we find a lowly messenger scrambling through the stone castle.  
  
“Sire!” the messenger calls out, following the billowing black cloak of Acting Lord Regent Marko.  
  
“Unacceptable,” Kurt Marko fumes, “That she simply take off! Have the hunting dogs been sent out?”  
  
“They left with the boys from the village this morning, sir, and the last of the royal guard.” Duke Azazel mirrors Marko and they make their way to the throneroom.  
  
You see, without a proper heir on the throne, mutiny would arise throughout the land, and the last thing that Kurt Marko wants is a chaotic people. Thus, he must find the princess, despite his inward wishes.  
  
“Sir, a message -- from the prince - ”  
  
“What is it?” Marko snaps, turning on his heels to face the messenger.  
  
“Prince Charles has ended the border skirmish, engaging the North in a five day war. They reached an uneasy armistice with King Shaw -- ”  
  
“King Shaw?” Azazel frowns. “Why was the black king at the border, so far south from his castle?”  
  
“I don’t, I don’t know, sire, I apologize, ’M just -- ”  
  
“Yes, alright,” Marko waves a hand. “Go on.”  
  
“The prince requests immediate reinforcements from all southern kingdoms upon his return, in three days’ time. The advisors believe that war is imminent.”  
  
“Which advisors?” Azazel demands, “Who says that war is coming? Speak, boy!”  
  
“The -- all of them, my liege, the advisors of all four nations have agreed to send this message -- ”  
  
Marko snarls. “Report to the Earl of Kruvia and the Viscount of Rosbergh. Give them the same message.”  
  
The boy scuttles away.  
  
“And?” Azazel turns to Marko.  
  
Marko gnashes his teeth. “Bring the dogs back. We must mobilize. The princess will have to find her own way home.”  
  
If anything, our princess travels the opposite direction from the Westchester castle.  
  
She abandons her blonde locks and blue eyes for her blue, scaly form: much more adapted and practical in this jungle-like forest.  
  
Following the will-o’-wisp leads Raven and Logan deeper into the forest. Underfoot, Raven’s agile bare feet and Logan’s paws barely make a noise.  
  
“This path,” Raven mutters under her breath, “I’ve been here before.”  
  
The whispers glow and murmur eerily. Logan snaps at them with his yellow fangs.  
  
“Oh, leave them,” Raven says, swatting him away.  
  
The wisps lead them to a dark path that twists and turns. They climb over gnarled roots and duck under skinny, clawed tree branches that resemble bony fingers.  
  
They emerge from the dark forest, into a small clearing.  
  
“This is it!” Raven exclaims, taking in the small hill, and the little hut built into the earth. “This is where I bought the spell, here, I’ll -- ”  
  
She leaps forward and swings open the circular door.  
  
A plume of dust rises up to meet her. Logan sneezes.  
  
Where there was once a shop full of assorted trinkets and superstitious paraphernalia now remains an entirely empty room. “I don’t understand,” Raven protests faintly, “She was here, she was right here.”  
  
Claws clack against the floor as Logan turns and pads away. Frustratedly, Raven tugs on her red hair. “She’s gone! I can’t believe that slimey -- ”  
  
Logan growls warningly.  
  
Raven turns and inspects a worn piece of parchment she missed. “What’s this?” she asks Logan. “It was just there.”  
  
He huffs.  
  
“Welcome to Angela’s Antiques,” Raven reads. “Home of Weschester’s finest tea and novelties. Angela is currently heading west to replenish supplies, but if you’d like to inquire about a healing potion or Celmic teas… ” Raven skims the paper. “If you’re the princess, there’s a bit I forgot to tell you about the spell.” Raven makes a noise of disbelief. “A bit she forgot? That witch!” Scowling, Raven reads on, “Princess, I won’t be back ‘til spring. By the seventh sunrise, your spell will be permanent. Unless you remember this words: _fate be changed. Look inside, mend the bond torn by pride._ ”  
  
Raven tosses the parchment aside. “What does that mean?” She rounds on Logan, who’s sat down on his haunches, looking unamused. “What does that even mean? Look inside, mend the bond… ”  
  
The princess paces the empty shop for a few minutes, murmuring to herself. Outside, a crow caws ominously.  
  
They don’t exit the empty shop for another while, not until hunger forces them to take action and seek food outside of their newly-found shelter. Logan leads the way without the blue will-o’-wisps, the echoes of the young witch’s words hanging over their heads.


End file.
